forever in blue jeans

January 31, 2023

There was a time that I owned more pairs of jeans than socks; Dad jeans, Mom jeans, ludicrously low slung jeans. Distressed, shredded, stone-washed and tie-dyed –– I had them all. There were the Marc Jacobs flares, wide enough to place me alongside Abba at the Eurovision song contest. And a pair of jet black jeggings so tight someone had to peel them off me. There were my Sevens –– the OG of premium denim –– that I’d customized with tiny Swarovski crystals, and my trusty Chip and Pepper’s worn with vertiginous heels and sparkly tops to every party I ever went to. Over the years, I’ve outgrown them all (in size and/or style) and I’m now left with two pairs of the same jean. They’re smart enough to wear out to dinner, and comfortable enough to do a downward dog in. I’m not sure I’ll ever wear another style. That is unless I find a replica of my earliest denim memory. 1987, blue like the sky, soft as clouds, baggy, pleated, perfection.


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