As a girl whose slender frame is built of more than half legs, jean shopping has its many woes. I wore only long overalls for many years in elementary school (because of their adjustable length and lack of waistline) and rocked some pretty shameful high-water bellbottoms into middle school. During my brief stint as a fashion designer between seventh and eighth grade, I poorly tailored the inseams and hemlines of my paper-thin Mudd jeans in hopes that I could gain a few inches of material, as well as a pair of hips and a butt. Regular jeans appeared to have shrunk in the great flood of 2002, long jeans floated away from my thighs like hammer pants, and I gave my mother explicit instructions to stop drying my jeans altogether.
It’s not like I’m asking for denim-colored paint to be slathered across my voluptuous Beyoncé booty. But I can’t help but envy the effortless jeans and t-shirt hotness that is Jen Aniston. Boyfriend jeans, flares, bootlegs, capris, Bermuda shorts, skinny jeans, and eventually jeggings have made their way in and out of vogue since I was in the third grade. Never have I been able to put on a pair of jeans and feel that from ankles to waist I looked particularly appealing. Jeans are not supposed to be a chore; that is the point of wearing them.
As fashion weaves between past decades, I’ve finally tried on a trend that fits. The cigarette pant is proving to be a year-round success for my unique proportions. The waist line is high enough that my dainty rear is covered, and might even look a little curvy. Cigarette jeans aren’t meant to reach one’s ankle, so I can wear flats, sneakers, or heels without having to worry that the flare is covering enough of my foot to not appear awkwardly too short. In the winter, cigarette pants fit neatly into boots without having to be tucked to one side or scrunched around my ankles. Whatever the weather, my cigarette pants and I will weather together.
So thank you, early 1960s designers, Audrey Hepburn, and Gap Jeans. I can finally grab a pair of jeans and a t shirt and run out of my apartment feeling confident that I am the girl wearing the jeans that all of the other girls in the room wish they were wearing.
Labels: 1960s, body image, fashion