Forever in blue jeans.

I don't consider myself a fashionista in the truest sense. I leave that up to my buddy, Gwyneth, and other ladies of her ilk. I own nothing high dollar and certainly nothing designer. That said, Kate Spade and Tori Burch: I love you.

It doesn't mean I'm immune to the fickle fads of fashion, though. Dr. X doesn't seem to understand why I make a pit stop at Marshall's once a week to salivate over my newest obsession. (They're still there ! At $99 - Lord, help me. Please.)

And I'll buy anything with a polka dot on it. And, no, not just for almost four-year-old Daughter X. The same goes for Peter-Pan style collars. And flats. I wear them, in black, every day. And not necessarily the same pair (although my beautiful, beautiful in-laws gifted me with my very favorite pair that I do wear almost every day).

And jeans. Blue. Black. Cropped. Long. Skinny. Straight. Baggy. Bermuda. All kinds, shapes and sizes - I love them. Given the opportunity to work at a place that offered free health-care benefits or the ability to wear jeans everyday... Well, let's just say I'd pause for a minute over that one. I really would.

I've run the gamut in my brands, too. I've gotten Lucky, tried out various store brands, and realized one can never go wrong with a solidly fitting pair from the Gap. Surprisingly, my current fave comes from the place where my income gets sucked out my pockets on the way in the door (Target, people, Target).

My love affair with jeans is certainly life-long. I wore skintight Jordache before it was likely age appropriate. And, much like my need for Frye boots, I pined, heartsick, over Guess jeans. Oh, the acid wash! The zippers! The triangular tag on the back pocket! I wanted those - nay, needed those jeans! It was a matter of survival in the pre-teen social strata.

I saved. Birthday money, Christmas money. Living with a mother better known as The Cheapest Woman in America necessitated the careful stockpiling of my allowance and other cash-flow resources. For months. Months and months. The Cheapest Woman in America wasn't buying me $50 jeans.

Eventually, after diligent penny pinching, The Cheapest Woman in America took me and my savings down to the department store to buy those much sought after, at least by my heart, Guess jeans. I stood between the racks of clothes and stared at them. Light wash. Petite, Size 4. Then I stared at the money in my wallet. It would be gone. All of it would be gone once I paid the cashier for this beauty.

I'd be wearing the months I'd slaved over the nightly dish washing, scooped up dog poop in the back yard, and scrubbed out my own toilet. Was it worth it? For one pair of jeans? Truly, did it all add up? Did wearing this pair of jeans finally make me extraordinary?

I took the jeans off the rack, went and tried them on, and then put them back. On the hanger. On the rack. And didn't look back.

The Cheapest Woman in America told me she was proud of my decision.

"Let's go to Target, Mom," I mumbled.