The Skinny

Yes, I wear skinny jeans. No, I do not aspire to be like Nicole Richie, who is regularly seen looking skinny in her skinny jeans. I wear them, instead, for two reasons: One, I like fashion, and they are fashionable; and two, I've become skinny again, and I like to think I can pull them off.

In his latest film, Scoop (which I thought was moderately funny but also somewhat forced), Woody Allen, who restored himself to the big screen and reprises his role as himself, says "My anxiety is like aerobics." This quote aptly describes my own weight loss recently: I've worried and obsessed away four pounds and counting since the beginning of the fall semester three weeks ago. Take note, dieters: you can throw away your weight loss books. Simply become a comp 101 instructor, and you'll lose weight even while eating all the fatty foods you can find. Add a bit of chronic depression to the mix, and you're set.

I accidentally discovered this diet a few years ago when I entered grad school and my neuroticism reached new heights as my weight dropped to new lows. For a while, I didn't notice the weight loss, probably because the all-encompassing anxiety was a bit distracting. When I finally realized that all of my clothes were too big--and why--I was forced to accept the terrible irony that I will only look fabulous when I'm most miserable.

Last summer I got married and finished school, and in the face of newfound marital bliss and so few demands on my time, excess neuroticism faded for a while. And because I wasn't miserable, I stopped looking fabulous. Ten extra pounds snuck onto my frame, and I was so contented at the time that I didn't even care--I continued visiting Michael's Pizza Bar on $.50 pizza night and hoovering as much as I could.

Then, in April, I went to Florida, and something ruined my view of the idyllic beach that stretched before me: the sight of my gigantic, pasty, dimpled ass spilling out of my bathing suit in the bright sunshine. Oh, the horror, the horror. At first I doubted that it could even be mine; it seemed so alien, extraterrestrial even. I poked it a few times to make sure Mike's idea of a joke wasn't to attach a prosthetic ass while I slept. But it was definitely, horrifyingly mine.

Exercize happened, and the ass dwindled. Then, teaching happened, along with its accompanying stress and self-doubt, and now I'm back to the skinniness of misery.

And so, I wear skinny jeans. My fear of tapered pants (which began in the mid-nineties after I had seen pictures of myself in pegged jeans) has subsided, at least while I'm neurotic and miserable enough to stay skinny. Or until they go out of style.