Adventures in High End Denim
A few weeks ago, when a rip appeared in my H&M jeans, I started wondering if there wasn’t more out there for me, denim-wise. I’m 30, live in New York City, and for the first time in my life, I have a bit of a disposable income, so I thought: Why not get some really expensive jeans?
I went through all the justifications in my head that I’m sure every woman does. First, they’re something you wear practically every day, so they should be the one item you are okay with spending a lot of money on. I mean, if you work it out, you’re still paying less than $1 a day for something that will make your ass look absolutely fantastic. And really, don’t you deserve to treat yourself every once in a while?
So I abandoned the comfy, safe world of H&M denim and dove in headfirst, starting with some online reconnaissance. I started learning names like Citizens of Humanity, Paper Denim and Cloth, Seven for all Mankind, and Joe’s Jeans. I ignored the fact that most of them sounded like weird charities. The women in the endless pictures I perused online did look fantastic, as well as sexily bored, and they were all wearing heels. “Ok, yes, heels. My new jeans will be too good for ballet flats. I can wear heels.” On one website, I noticed that the jeans I liked most were on sale for just that day. So I bought them before I could rethink, feeling reckless in the way that only a grownup buying stuff online can. Then, I waited, and they arrived. Strike one.
It turns out I have a freakishly long torso. I suppose I am grateful to the gods of denim for teaching me such things. After snatching the package from the mailman, I couldn’t get them on fast enough, excited to exit my bedroom a changed woman. And while my prayers that they would fit were answered, the denim gods have a sense of humor, because they literally just barely cleared my…oh, what’s the technical term for it? Mons pubis. They were too short and somehow too long at the same time, and wearing them would have made the world my gynecologist. I retreated from the battlefield and sent them back, shamefully requesting store credit.
My next leg of reconnaissance involved me going to some of the boutiques in the Meatpacking District in Manhattan. This is something I recommend you do if you’re ever feeling too good about yourself, because it’ll get you in a more self-hating state of mind in no time. Usually when I go, I try on clothes that I’ll never be able to afford and stare into the dressing room mirror, saying things like “Oh how clever, Rihanna! I would love more pomegranate juice!” But this time, instead of hitting up the $400 dresses, I wound my way through the 6 or 7 impossibly tall and deer-like women browsing and went for the overwhelming Escher-like stacking of the denim section, trying on pair after pair of jeans, often wondering if the size on the label had anything to do with the actual size of the item. “You know, you were once just sturdy pants worn by factory workers” I growled at my armfuls of denim, distracted by even more impossibly gorgeous alien women, prancing around in bandage dresses, scowling with perfectly done smoky eyes. I thought it was yet another cosmic joke until I realized that I was trying on high end denim during fashion week, and I was actually surrounded by models. Time to leave. Strike two.
Despite being surrounded by physical perfection, I managed to find a few brands of jeans that worked on me and fit properly, and wrote all the info down feverishly in the tiny notebook I always carry. I went back online, now armed with knowledge, and ordered. I am currently awaiting them, and when they arrive, I will wear them constantly. Whether or not it’s true, if you see me in them, please tell me that my ass looks fantastic.
