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I normally wouldn’t do this. I’m a news writer, an editor no less. I write about serious issues, you know, UJ cases, Union elections, guns on campus, Waltham City Council, Mamoon Darwish. But I had a revelation the other night. This is serious. I never thought this would happen. My whole-world view got turned upside down. I put on a pair of skinny jeans. And they looked good. Not just good, they looked hot. I know this sounds conceited, but you didn’t see me in those jeans.

I was sitting on my housemate’s bed, and we were reminiscing about the good old days. I’d be lying if I said a beautiful rendition of ‘Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)’ was not sung. It was and it was amazing. I thought about going to bed because that would’ve been the smart thing to do but instead I decided to rifle through her closet.

Standing there, before a mass of fabric, I had a thought. “Hey Danielle,” I said, “would it be ok if I tried on your H&M jeans?”

“Sure,” she responded.

So I took the jeans off the hanger and decided to take a risk. Before I go forward, a brief bit of history would be helpful.

I’m a fan of the TLC show What Not to Wear. I take seriously what they say about seaming and tailoring and skirt length. I’m conscious of creating an hourglass figure and elongating the leg. For the first few seasons of the show, the tapered leg pant was maligned. I’d even say it was demonized. It exaggerates the hip. It makes the body appear less proportioned, larger etc. And Clinton and Stacy were right. A wide-leg pant balances out the hip and elongates the leg.

So when skinny pants became all the rage, I thought, “WTF? Unless you have the body of Audrey Hepburn, there is no way those pants can work.”

Fast-forward to last May. I was standing before shelves upon shelves of jeans at Express. I thought, “what the hell, I’ll try a pair of skinny jeans.” I took them to the dressing room, put them on, and stood before the mirror perplexed. I couldn’t tell if they looked good or not. I opened the door and asked the nearest saleswoman.

“Oh, they’re totally cute,” she said. “Do you wear flats a lot?”

“No,” I responded. My red Birkenstock sandals were sitting in the corner next to my well-worn bootleg jeans.

“Converse?”

“No.” I didn’t tell her that I tossed my pink Chucks in the ninth grade after I decided I wasn’t going to be a Good Charlotte groupie after all.

“Well, they’re really versatile.”

I bought them. Stupid choice. I took them home and the next day I tried them on. I stood in front of the mirror totally disgusted. Those pants were very unflattering. They were doing my hips and thighs no favors. They were doing all sorts of disfavors actually.

I returned the pants and decided to officially swear off skinny jeans. I came to the conclusion that skinny jeans and my hip-thigh ratio were as incompatible as Sarah Palin and feminism.

Fast-forward again to a few nights ago. I took Danielle’s pants off the hanger and proceeded to put them on, one leg at a time. This was a somewhat arduous task. Danielle wears a smaller size than I. After a bit of struggle, the jeans were on and fastened.

I couldn’t bend my legs but I stood in the mirror in disbelief. I finally understood what The Beatles were singing about in “Got to Get You into my Life” – my ass.

“Look at yourself,” Danielle instructed, “you can so wear skinny jeans!!!”

“Holy crap,” I said, “these look really fly. Like, seriously, fly.”

“We’re going to H&M to buy you some jeans,” Danielle responded.

We haven’t had the chance yet to go shopping but I look forward to our excursion to Newbury Street. Whether or not I find the perfect pair of skinny jeans at the perfect price point, I learned something about life in front of the mirror in the C room of my Grad.

When the economy is failing and millions are starving around the globe, I can take comfort in the fact that somewhere, in some third world country, a small child is working hard to make sure my ass looks super fly in dem apple-bottomed jeans.