I bought the jeans.
Then the doubts set in.

As I observed the rigid fabric clinging to my not insubstantial thighs, I wondered if this fabric represented me, clinging desperately to my youth.

As I struggled, just a little, to fasten the button, I wondered if this was symbolic of my struggle against the ravages of both time and "lard".

As I regarded the artificially worn denim, I pondered on how I too had become worn down by life itself.

Should I, a 33 year old woman, really be buying jeans that require me to jump up and down in order to fasten them? I checked the bag and found that I still had the receipt.

But when I saw how they sat comfortably on my hipbone, flattening my stomach; when I saw how the back pockets were just the right size, positioned wide and low, to assist with the illusion which makes your bum just look a little more in proportion; when I observed the legs which were just a little bit too long (for me, that's a novelty); when I looked at the size of the garment and remembered the effort it took to get back down to that size again...

... "To hell with it, I'm wearing them". I cut all the tags off and strutted into town.

But I've still got the receipt.