I should be writing you a loquacious letter expressing my gratitude for shocking the shit out of me this evening while semi-desperately shopping for much-needed jeans. Instead, I'm writing to ask what the shit is wrong with your sizes.
I can't remember the last time my tail poured itself into a size as itsy as the one that I purchased two (yes two!) pairs of your $19 sale jeans. In fact, I don't recall ever fitting into something quite this ridiculous nor did I ever believe it was possible for me after two children.
Perhaps a more fitting (no pun intended) question should be directed to my hips: when did you decide to start liking me again?
Whatever the letter needs to say or the question that needs to be asked is, thank you Old Navy for making me feel like I'm doing something right for me.