I'm So All That - Nyah, Nyah, Nyah

Oh, those Juicy women. They’ve started such a revolution in the casual attire world.

In the “I don’t necessarily work out, but I’m going to wear this track suit because it’s cashmere, and I can afford it” world.

Perhaps you’ve heard of those Juicy Women. They are the two totally gorgeous babes who founded the Juicy Couture clothing company. They are the two nymph-like creatures who, for a mere $88 American Dollars, will deign to sell you a pair of sweatpants with “Juicy” written across the expanse of your derriere.

Hmm. When I first saw it, I kind of liked it. It was saucy. Naughty. And oh so definitive. See? Right here on my behind? I’m Juicy. It’s Juicy. It’s irrefutable and closed to discussion. Just a cold, hard fact. My butt is Juicy. It is what it is, and it says so, right here. Nyah nyah nyah.

So, imagine my delight when this past weekend, having jumped the dreaded “Shopping for the Appropriate Office Party Outfit” train, I derailed into a casual little boutique which carried a similar type of sweatpant to the Juicy models, at a mere fraction of the price. Not a “Juicy” was to be found, but instead there was “Spoiled”, and “Angel”, and “Brat” (not just cute, but educational – a helpful acronym for remembering how to treat flu symptoms: Bananas, Rice, Apple Juice, Tea). I was so excited – I was finally about to bestow upon my derriere a name all of its own (other than “Derriere”). I grabbed an XL and made a bee-line for the dressing room. Again, imagine my delight. Butt-naming. Yee Haw. Bring it on.

Then imagine my dismay when I tried to hoist these cute bottoms up. I could barely get them over my thighs, and surely nowhere near the area in question – the area with the identity crisis, the one which needed labeling to identify to all how cute it was. Try as I may, those babies were not budging past the tops of my knees. I didn’t need the sweatpants that said “Spoiled”; I needed their evil twin, “Delusional”.

I was incredulous (and delusional). I was incensed. Here was more fodder for my conspiracy theory about the inconsistency of sizing in the clothing industry (a rant best saved for another day). How could I possibly not squeeze into an XL? Along with the crushing blow that I would still be roaming this earth without my behind having a name came the thought that I was being completely unrealistic. How could I ever have dreamt that I could wear something cute and trendy? I needed to give my capricious head a good shake, and get real.

This disappointment led me then to the following thought - why hasn’t someone come out with stylish sweatpants, à la Juicy, for the other 98% of us who aren’t saddlebag-less, butt-less wonders? For those of us over size 2?

Think about it. It’s a marketer’s dream, with mind-staggering appeal. We could still have labeled posteriors, but the monikers would be more realistically descriptive. “Gluteus Maximus”. “Lazy”. “Meaty”. “Big”. “Wow!”. “Satisfied”. Or, rather than just a single word, we could even venture out into witty phrases (because we always have something to say): “Don’t Care”, “Yeah, So?”, “Holy Sh*t”, “My Hubby Loves the Chubby”, “Working on It”, or “Gym Membership Expired”. There could be the cute “And” line - “Gigglin’ and Jigglin’”, “Droopy and Loopy”, or “Saggy and Happy”. We could even pop-culture it up a bit with the “Extreme Makeover” line of pants – “Pre-Lipo” or “Post-Surgery Swelling”, or ride the after-maternity bandwagon with “I Had a Baby Two Years Ago, OK?”.

So, back to those Juicy Women. I’m conflicted. Elitist style freaks or inspired geniuses? I don’t know whether to dislike them for daring to objectify women’s behinds, or to laud them for their creativity, which provided me with such a fantastic springboard to launch my own line of sweatpants, “Plump Rump”. Check it out. It’s a fact – it says so right here. Nyah, nyah, nyah.