So. Jeans. A perennial problem, the jeans. Remember when we were kids (you geezers out there like me) and there were just jeans. There weren’t five thousand different styles and different fabrics and different makes. There were jeans. Usually Levis.
I gave up on jeans a few years ago. Every time I’d find a make that fit, and that was reasonably comfortable and reasonably attractive, they’d go change them on me. And yet, even a LivingSmall type like moi, does sometimes read the fashion rags, usually while the magical Dezray is doing that thing she does to my hair that a) makes it cute and not just a mop, and b) gets rid of those grey hairs I don’t have. So, there’s this trend right now … “boyfriend jeans” … which pretty much just looks to me like comfy jeans, rolled up at the bottom. I live in Converse in the summer, and the look was cute, and so I thought … hmmm … jeans.
I was in a big-box store this weekend, and got looking at the jeans, and as usual, became immediately overwhelmed. When somehow, I wound up in the men’s section. Did you know that mens jeans are clearly labeled? That the labels describe the fit? Hmm. Boyfriend jeans. I don’t want the Sweetheart’s jeans, I want my own jeans, that don’t cut or bind or hurt my tender bits and that are kind of fun to wear. Men’s jeans?
I tried on a pair. They were FABULOUS! They had a nice clean cut to them. They fit as advertised. There was no binding. No pinching. Of course they were too long, but all the girls’ jeans are too long too.
I bought two pairs. For 20 bucks each. Yes, 20 bucks, what jeans should cost. And I LOVE them. I had to cut 4 inches off, but I used my pinking shears, and rolled them up. I have “boyfriend jeans” — they’re cute. They’re comfortable. No wonder men don’t walk around looking pained all the time. Their jeans don’t hurt. I feel like I’m ten years old again, wearing jeans, about to go outside and run around in the woods all day. I’m never going back to the women’s department for jeans ever again.
Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I don’t want pants that I can identify on the shelf, and that don’t hurt me, and that are both sort of cute and practical. Jeez oh Pete fashion people. I don’t need an 8 page spread in Oprah magazine about the different cuts you came up with just to make us feel even more inadequate and neurotic about our bodies than we already are. I just want a pair of pants. You can’t see me flipping you off, you terrible people who took over women’s jeans and who have rendered every pair of jeans I’ve worn in my adult life problematic — even when I was skinny enough that I was wearing jeans from the kids’ department. A pair of pants is what I want. A pair of pants that don’t cause me pain! That I have to go to the mens department to get them is a failure on your part. I’m never coming back, either. So there. Me and my very own non-boyfriend jeans are going to have a happy old age together, and while I might be crabby about many things, from now on, it’s not going to be about my pants.