Some come to the end of their university experience having found their soul mate. I however am nearing the end of my time at university and I’m coming up fruitless in a search for a love far closer to my heart – finding the perfect pair of jeans.
Of course, this relationship searching started long before my time at university, and when the thought of even being friends with boys made us little girls contort our faces with pure disgust. Yes, frustration in fitting rooms is an emotion felt long before the fury as your best friend is making a move on your man in the school playground.
There have been times in my life when I’ve thought “hallelujah! I’ve done it, my quest is complete.” I walk out of those changing rooms bursting with pride because, yeah, my day has finally arrived. I throw a look to my fellow jean-hunters that holds sympathy as they still struggle, but inside even they know how smug I’m feeling.
The great sensation of euphoria lasts only until I find myself gazing helplessly, usually the next morning into my wardrobe as if it’s going to tell me what to wear and dress me Cinderella style with animated birds. Just looking at those jeans makes me rage, why did they look so enticing in that dimly lit changing room and yet so “ugh” in my bedroom?
It all becomes clear I should never have oozed such smugness because I knew this would happen, it always does.
Is there such a thing as the perfect pair of jeans? It’s a question I often find myself pondering on probably too much, because I’m yet to come across anyone who is past their denim lusting days. I did, naively, think mine were over not so long ago. I was lulled into a false sense of security in the form of Topshop’s Leigh Jeans. Washed out black, skinny, smart, sit just above the waist and none of that dodgy excessive rolling up when wearing boots, what more could a girl ask for?
Turns out one wash can change the game completely. The situation I now have is an off blue acid colour, knees that look like I’ve been grafting down a mine, and a desperately sad looking crotch area. Hope and try as she might, no ‘it’ girl could hope to pull this look off. I just can’t muster the courage to get rid of them though.
On one occasion my mam tried to point out jeggings to me, to which I responded like a two-year-old and promptly stropped in the opposite direction. Did we really need another way to make leggings more acceptable in public? Were skinny jeans not skinny enough? Needless for me to say, my family know jeggings have no place in our household.
My current feelings reside in an area of disdain for jeans. We’re past the point of a lovers’ quarrel and I’m starting to think we’re better off as just friends. I’ve decided it’s best for me to convince myself that jeans are not soul mates, just a group of supportive friends; they all have their own personality. For now at least, because alas, there is still no dating app for jeans.