The hole was right there, in the spot where any sudden move would trigger a glimpse of deepest inner thigh or maybe a crotch flash of undies du jour. Even a lady of low fashion standards like me couldn’t bring myself to wear them, so I stashed the accidentally x-rated jeans in a bottom drawer and semi-forgot about them for five years.

That is, until I rallied my best domestic goodness impression in the precious off days between Christmas and New Year’s, and sewed up every ripped thing in the house…including the previously x-rated jeans! I stitched that crotch up good and tight (the jeans, people, the jeans), folded them proudly inside the drawer and went off to investigate why my kiddo was sounding the mom siren. Trying them on seemed so passé. The problem was fixed and I was temporarily amazing. 

A week later, life was back in swing and the laundry pile was high, so I whipped the jeans out and pulled their freshly fixed greatness on. Over the thighs, no problem, button around the waist without having to suck in – everything was going so well! Except, wait. When did my waist get so low?

I hooked my thumbs into the belt loops and tried to pull the waistband past my hips, which led to – nothing. Nothing but a horrible feeling of denim seams grating against my lady parts. 

They were ass jeans. As in, there was barely enough fabric in there to cover mine. Something I’d apparently forgotten in the half a decade it took me to spend quality time with them and a sewing needle. And speaking of time, I realized while gawking at the exposed space between my hipbones that I needed to leave to get my kid to her appointment five minutes ago. 

I yanked my shirt down and threw my coat on. In the waiting room I avoided the vinyl chairs so I didn’t stick to them. When it was time to go talk to the doctor, I gave my pants a tug up, my shirt a tug down, sucked in my belly for good measure, and tried to make such intense-and-yet-caring parental eye contact with the doc that she wouldn’t notice the precarious situation at my waistline. 

Of course this happened in January, and you know why? Because January feels like one long month of pulling up your ass jeans. Because I always head into this, the first month of the brand spanking new year, feeling slightly drunk on the holiday abundance and reset from all the beautiful days off and confident that yes, I have everything I need and of course it’s all going to work out! Then weeks or days or hours into the whole shebang, my inner peace fades with the Christmas lights and I have to scramble to try to pull my rapidly receding happy thoughts up over my brain just like I was struggling to pull those ass jeans up over my lower back.

See, every winter, my body is like, we’d like to lie down for two or three months now please. And it feels like even those of you not on team mood disorder are susceptible to a post holiday/winter season crash. Which makes all the sense!  We collectively go from nature in all her leaf-turning glory as the backdrop to multiple showstopper holidays, to a bleak outdoors and creepy images of a baby wearing a sash. I mean, honestly, I’m suspicious of anyone who’s not even a little bummed out by that.

It’s painfully easy to fall into a pattern of wake up, do the bare minimum, repeat. Hit the snooze alarm. Do it again. When you finally get up, wear a blanket as a dress. Grazing is easier than cooking. Scrolling is easier than reaching out. Lying on the couch wrapped in a blanket is easier than almost anything. My depression-soggy brain pulls me this way, sometimes all winter long. And sometimes, sipping a nice hot cuppa while rocking a blanket dress IS what you need. But other times, you’ve got to pull up your ass jeans and do something.

But where’s a sleepy foggy grumpy brain supposed to get the spark to do anything in this blah-est of months? I like to focus on MLK Day. (As if the man wasn’t enough of a hero in life, now his official day of inspiration comes at the darkest time of year.) Then, there’s the sweet relief of feeling the days get longer, a few precious minutes of sunlight at a time. Ohhhh spring and summer, hang in there, we’re coming for you!

Speaking of which, I’m coming for you, adult national championships in figure skating, so that right there is a golden reason for me to swap out the blanket dress for some yoga pants and skate my bleak thoughts away. Speaking of bad parenting, which we weren’t but let’s go there, I’ve been teaching my daughter swear words. Well, not exactly teaching….more like, demystifying. She picked up enough in school to spell “s-h-i-t” and understand which finger means the f word, without knowing what either of those things actually mean. Maybe my logic was wrong, or maybe it’s January and my depression brain pulled one over on me, but since baby love was clearly on her way to cracking the bad words code, I went ahead and told them to her. 

The specifics of our deal were, I’d tell her the swears if she promised not to say them. She now enjoys sitting on the couch with me, watching borderline inappropriate shows and mouthing curses at me every time she hears them. Again, this could be depression brain talking, but it feels like one of my better parenting wins. She gets second grade street smarts and and I get to watch an eight year old mouthing “assHOLE, assHOLE” every time Susie has a field day on Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. 

And that, right there, perks my winter up better than any ass jeans ever could. 

Feature photo by winterseitler & defaced by me. Girl in pink photo by silviarita. Blanket dress photo by my husband. All photos except blanket dress from Pixabay.