Me versus the Brangelina pant

Sporks. Brunch. Bennifer. TomKat.

We love our name mash-ups, don’t we? If two things or people can be put together, then so can their names.

I learned the hard way that one such hybrid may not be for me.

The jegging.

In case you haven’t heard of these, they are leggings made out of denim. Jeans + leggings = jeggings. Jeanius (Har, har).

The first time I heard about these double-duty items of clothing, I honestly thought they were a joke. I questioned them. I mocked them. And then—I had to have them.

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago. I knew I’d be going out with friends. And I had the perfect outfit picked out. In my mind. Jeggings. Boots. A sparkly top or jacket of some sort. Add some Erika sass, and I would be ready to ring in my new year.

I took the day off and set out shopping. I searched high and low for the perfect jegging. I went to one store and tried on a pair that were about the size I think I am now. Not pretty. They hung in all the wrong places. Bunched up where they shouldn’t. I actually giggled at myself in the mirror.

“Girl, you need a smaller size,” the salesperson told me.

"No, no. I don’t think so. That’s way too small for me,” I protested as she brought the next size down.

It turns out, we were both kind of right. I shoved myself into those things, squeezing my giant foot through the tiny ankle hole and falling into the mirror as I hopped around on one leg. Holding my breath as I buttoned them. I was sweating when I finally got them all the way on.

I looked like a sausage ready to bust out of its casing. It was laughable. Sweaty, red-faced and bursting at the seams. So much for my perfect birthday outfit.

I haven’t completely given up the idea of jeggings. But I’m also prepared to fully realize the hybrid pant may just not be for me. Yet.