Today I called Emma Kate because I had a little news I wanted to share with her, but when I said, “I have some news,” she immediately assumed that I was pregnant. Which of course I’m not. And if I were? Hello? I would have totally told the whole internet by now.

For the record, I would like to state that the assumption of pregnancy is perhaps the very toughest act to follow in terms of storytelling expectations. Anything after that is a letdown. It’s like someone guessing that your husband gave you a trip around the world for Christmas – and then you have to say no, actually, he gave me hubcaps.

I know whereof I speak on this particular issue because when I was eleven my daddy proudly gave my mama hubcaps for Christmas, and Mama thought it was a joke because she had spent the entire month of November dropping four or eighty-six hints that she wanted a pair of diamond earrings. Daddy, however, believed that the hubcaps were a perfectly lovely gift because at the time Mama was driving a Ford that lost a hubcap whenever she thought about driving over a pebble.

Needless to say, Mama failed to see the merit in the practical nature of Daddy’s tenderhearted yuletide gesture.

And also needless to say, when EK heard my actual news this afternoon, she wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as she would have been over, say, a baby, so I just gave up on my story and instead asked her what she was doing, because as best as I could tell she was wadding up plastic grocery bags and rubbing them against the mouthpiece of her phone.

As it turned out, she was buying some jeans. I can’t remember the specific brand EK was purchasing, but I can tell you without hesitation that they were not in fact Mom Jeans because Miss Thing would rather cut her hair with a butter knife than wear anything with pleats around the midriff area.

This is after all the same girl who contemplated ending her engagement when her then-fiance’ (now-wonderful husband) questioned whether or not she “needed” a skirt she bought at Goldsmith’s, at which point Emma Kate called me in tears and said in all seriousness that there was absolutely no way she could marry a man who didn’t recognize the importance of a good skirt. However, she came to her senses about fifteen minutes later, and you’ll be glad to know that they continue to live happily ever after.

Anyway, EK told me that she doesn’t mind spending a little extra on good jeans because she wears them every single day. And she doesn’t know it, but her statement about wearing blue jeans every single day has provoked great thought on my part, because what I have come to realize over the course of this afternoon is that I am not a dedicated jeans-wearer, by and large. I mean, I have some jeans, but I am by no means a jeans-connoisseur. As long as I can get away with boot-cut, I’m happy. As long as that whole skinny jeans thing is water under the bridge, I’m good to go.

I think part of the reason for my lack of jeans-dependence is because Mama always discouraged them. I’ve told y’all before about her deep and abiding disappointment in what I was wearing the night D. proposed, and I really think that if I saw her wearing a pair of blue jeans – which, just to be clear, is something I have never seen in my whole life – I would probably require some sort of therapy to recover from the shock of it all.

I’ve never seen D.’s mother wear jeans, either, though she does have some “darling Liz Claiborne pants, I mean they’re not really denim but they sort of look like a darker denim with white stitching? And they’re not tight or anything, oh heavens no, but they do have a little stretchy stretch to them, just enough so that they don’t hug your hips and thighs but they’re not really jeans, heavenly days no, because you know really if you think about it, jeans are sort of scratchy! They are! They’re scratchy!”

So, in the interest of fully exploring this Deeply Important Topic, I have determined that I need to give jeans a more prominent position in my wardrobe. If you have a favorite brand that will not require me to withdraw money from Alex’s college fund in order to purchase them, please let me know.

And please don’t suggest that I buy anything even remotely resembling low-riders. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that the outcome of that particular fashion scenario would be a muffin-top effect so stunning that you’d want to slap some butter on me and warm me up in the microwave.