Today, I officially declared war on all jeans manufacturers. It all started when I saw a perfect pair in a shop window. The color was "blue dream," the fit "Insta-diva." I confidently grabbed my usual size and stepped into the fitting room. My god, who invented that lighting in the stalls?! It highlights flaws you don't even have yet, but which will definitely appear in 20 years.

The "crawling in" process began. At first, everything went well. The jeans cleared my knees, then my hips... and then it happened. The Great Stand-off between the button and reality. I held my breath so hard that spots danced before my eyes. I jumped, writhed like a professional gymnast, and even tried to zip them while lying on the floor. At one point, I thought the jeans started making mocking squeaks.

A consultant's voice came from behind the curtain: "Miss, do you need help?" Oh yes, honey, bring me an excavator and a pack of antidepressants! In the end, I emerged from the fitting room red-faced, sweaty, and firmly convinced that yesterday's cheesecake was to blame. Okay, and the day-before-yesterday's pizza too.

You know what I did? I went and bought an oversize dress. Because life is too short to fight with denim. And that extra kilogram on my hip... I decided to call it a "storage for tenderness." After all, there should be plenty of a good person, and in my case, preferably in comfortable clothes😄