Does My Butt Look Like a Cheetah in These Pants?

As another Labor Day weekend sweltered to a close in the LBC, I decided to escape the heat by retreating to the sweet sanctuary of TJ. The Maxx, I mean. Not the city in Mexico. I perused the purses, wandered among the ankle boots, and sniffed the shampoos. As I made my way over to the specialty household cleaners (don’t ask, and I won’t tell), I caught a pair of gray and white cheetah print pants eyeing me from the clearance rack.

Hel-lo, Gorgeous. Paige Denim. White with gray and black spots. My size. And marked down to $25.00. I picked them up, feeling instantly cooler. But was I really a wearer of cheetah print pants? It seemed like something you either were or weren’t. Like engaged. Or pregnant. I immediately thought back to the time I convinced myself that I was the type of person who could wear a silver studded, black leather fanny pack. How I had pictured myself swaying to the strains of some indie rock band in a dark dive bar in Brooklyn. In my bikini top. Because I was just that cool. Then I remembered my last concert: Sheryl Crow at the Orange County Fair. With my dad. Grumbling about having to get up for work the next morning. Wearing a fleece blanket from the trunk of the car. I was definitely not a studded leather fanny pack person.

But was I a printed denim wearer? Like everyone else who was in fifth grade in 1991, I too had floral printed denim that had had its day in the sun. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the 1991 version of printed denim came in the form of Bermuda shorts. That you wore cuffed at the knee with your oversized Hypercolor t-shirt that so cleverly displayed your classmates'  hand prints. Until your mom washed it, that is. Then it was no longer hypercolor. Then it was just a neon orange t-shirt that said “Hypercolor” on it. My Hypercolor t-shirt came courtesy of the Goodwill; all of its clever hand prints had been long ago washed away. But I digress.  Holding those cheetah (or was it snow leopard?) printed jeans in my hands, I pictured myself walking into my office in Newport Beach on a casual Friday. My skinny snow leopard pants paired with a black v-neck sweater. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Oversized Timex watch. Tory Burch Reva Ballet Flats. Authentic Bonnie Cashin vintage Coach bag. Because I was just that cool. How chic, people would coo. How gamine! How Audrey!  

I walked my beautiful snow leopard jeans up to the register, excited to become who I was. I bypassed the fitting rooms entirely. There was no way I was going to let an unfortunately placed mirror and cruel lighting ruin my good buy buzz!

Back at home, I tried on my precious snow leopard jeans as my roots processed. It’s hard to really feel secure in cheetah print anything when you are sporting a hairline of gray roots. Not impossible, but extremely difficult. One leg, two legs, zip, button . . . success! I stepped in front of the mirror. Hel-lo, Disappointment! I turned, examining the pants from every angle. Something wasn’t right. Does my butt look like a cheetah in these pants? Is my butt supposed to look like a cheetah in these pants? 

 

Where had I gone wrong? Was I actually too . . . old for cheetah print pants? Sure I had a few gray hairs, but that wasn’t my fault! I had definitely received some faulty pigment genes, but I wasn’t old, right? Right?

Quick, WWTTD? What Would Tina Turner Do? When questioning whether or not something is age appropriate, one should always seek guidance from everyone’s favorite miniskirt wearing, love questioning diva. Even Oprah has sought wisdom from the great wigged one, for crying out loud! Tina Turner’s big wheels have kept on turning in her microminis and sky-high stilettos for decades. Consider this: Tina became eligible for an AARP membership back when Bush was the Commander-in-Chief. The first Bush. Not W. I looked in the mirror. The problem was not the gray hair that I was in the process of covering. It was certainly not my 31 revolutions around the sun. The problem was the way those stupid cheetah pants stretched across my thighs. My moneymaker may have looked like a jungle predator, but my thighs looked like they had been stricken with a yet-unnamed disease. And therein lied the lesson. Tina can shake her tail feather in her short skirts and high heels because she doesn't compromise on fit. My cheetah print pants required a concession from my thighs that I was just not prepared to make. 

I may very well be a snow leopard print pants wearer. But I am not meant to be a wearer of these particular snow leopard print pants. And that’s okay. Like Tina, I will live to dance in my stilettos another day. I’m glad I didn’t throw away the receipt.       

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