I’m no fashion maven, but I have noticed that ripped jeans have made something of a comeback. Many years ago, I wore ripped up jeans as a symbol of my contempt for polite society (that and because all the cool kids were wearing them). Seeing the young people sport this trend fills me with a certain nostalgia, and so I suppose I should have been happy when my favorite jeans went from worn to torn.
Unfortunately instead of saying nonconformity, my jeans say, “Hey! She’s wearing hot pink underpants!”
Yep. My favorite jeans bit the denim dust.
My nostalgia has been replaced with dread. You know that statistic about women having to try on a gazillion pairs of jeans before finding one that fits? For me, it’s two gazillion.
It all starts with the length. While my legs are long for my height (five feet, three inches), my inseam is smack dab in between petite and regular. Petites fit like capris, and it looks like I have made an embarrassing faux pas (rhymes with “hamel foe”). I try on regulars, and the crotch hangs down to my knees and I trip all over myself. I don’t mind rolling a bit, but I’d rather not look like I’ve pooed my pants. Searching for a pair that mitigates the four-inch difference between the standard sizes takes all my shopping patience. Once that issue is resolved, however, I have other problems.
Most jeans for women are really made for fourteen-year-old boys. As I am, in fact, a woman, I happen to have hips. And an ass. I like my curves (and I’m not alone), but designers seem to think that I should take a chainsaw to them in order to fit into their jeans. By the time I find something that is both the right length and will fit my hips, the legs billow out, and I look like a blue grocery bag. It takes another soul-crushing eon to find something that shows that I have legs and not logs.
And then, there’s the style. I’m not twenty-one anymore, but neither am I forty-five. I want something that looks perfect whether I’m hitting the town or going to the coffee shop. The color is important, as is the overall detail. There’s nothing worse than the wrong pair of jeans. I should know. I have at least four pairs in my closet, purchased in desperation or exhaustion after deluding myself into thinking that I’ll like them once I get them home.
Last, but by all means not least (especially now), is the price. I’m unemployed. It doesn’t make a lick of sense to go out and drop a huge chunk of change on jeans. But style and fit don’t come cheap, so I’m not sure what to do about that. I do visit the discount racks, but with all of the above stacked against me, I rarely have any luck.
Sigh. Maybe I’ll just stick with skirts.