A month or two ago I needed a new pair of jeans. I went to the mall, spent about 5 minutes finding a pair that sort of fit, and bought them. End of story.

Well, not quite.

Today I went to the mall with my husband and son. My husband commented on the tight, hip hugger jeans that all the young women are wearing now. You know, the kind that expose way more butt crack than I ever want to see on another woman when she bends down. The kind that are so tight around the waist that plump tummies spill over belts. The kind that are so tight at the crotch they probably give you a yeast infection in 30 minutes flat. You know, that kind? My husband revealed to me that he and his friend stand at the bar during the professional lacrosse games that they attend and count off the number of women who should not be wearing these jeans. “Not her. Not her. Not her. Nope, not her.”

I was in mid-chortle when I suddenly experienced my own jeans-related epiphany: I just bought a pair of jeans and FAILED TO SEE WHAT MY BUTT LOOKS LIKE IN THEM! Yup, that’s right. I bought a pair of jeans and did not even turn around in front of the mirror to check out my butt. How could this happen? I used to spend HOURS checking out my butt. I looked at my butt EVERY DAY. When I was living with my parents, I used to sneak into their room and examine my butt in front of their full-length mirror. If they were using their room, I’d go into the bathroom and twist around on the edge of the tub so I could see my butt in the mirror. (I learned not to do this in high heels.) I agonized over my butt. Did these pants make my butt look too bulbous? Did this pair give my butt a nice rounded look? Were the back pockets sized to the right proportion? Trying on pants at the mall was a day-long affair. I’d carry a huge armful to the dressing room and dump them on the floor. Maybe the acid-washed jeans? The tan corduroys? The herringbone dress pants? Only the pants that best flattered my butt made it into my closet.

At first, I couldn’t even remember when I had stopped checking my butt. Then it came to me. I must have forgotten about this important ritual sometime after the birth of my son. I can barely remember those first few weeks of no sleep, recovery from painful Cesarian surgery, anxiety-filled attempts to breastfeed, and the overwhelming fear that my son would stop breathing if I left his side for an instant. Many days I didn’t even get out of my pajamas! Of course I forgot how to do the butt-check. Then, when my son was older (like 3) and I started wearing makeup and brushing my hair again, my butt was just too large and flabby to look at. I was just grateful to find something to cover it. There was no way I was going to actually LOOK at it.

It never occurred to me that other people might still be checking out my butt. “There goes that chunky mom with the large, flat butt,” I can hear them saying. “Cute kid, though.” Well, let them look. I don’t really care all that much. I’ll cling to the one thing I know I’m still doing right: not revealing my 42-year-old butt crack with hip hugger jeans.

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