Fashion Democracy

Since it appears that cooler weather may actually one day occur in West Texas, I spent part of Friday – my day off – shopping for jeans and longer capris. In truth, I began searching for super-casual t-shirts, but ended up in the jeans section. I know it was a bit masochistic of me, but there it is.  As Robert Frost wrote, “As way leads onto way….”

Anyway, I digress.

Eventually, as I searched the sand-blasted, acid-washed aisles of our local mall, it dawned on me that I am not emotionally or psychologically equipped to shop for jeans anymore – if ever I was.

I simply don’t like stretch, and that’s all jeans of the new millennia are; they are leggings with pockets. There I’ve said it. It is entirely antithetical to what the jean is all about to make it primarily of spandex. If your jean tags say anything besides “100% cotton,” you are deluding yourself with the label, “jeans.” You are really a fraction of a fashion skip away from Pajama-jeans, and, in truth, we really all know that it’s wrong to go there. Really. On so many levels.

But I will go here: I imagine that Levi Strauss would spend the rest of eternity whirling in his grave if he could see what modern man – and woman – has done to his opus, making his masterpiece stretchy, ripped, and abbreviated in such ways that only Barbie could really drive that zipper.

What happened to waist-high cotton denim? You all remember it – the legendary crop grown in the South that was eventually turned into Wranglers with a pre-starch stiffness that would allow them to stand on their own. I am not suggesting that I enjoy these brand-new, Wrangler-type jeans; in fact, I always hated new jeans as a kid because they did chafe a bit. At the same time, I LOVE what comes after that newness wears off – jeans that are worn, soft, and comfy after years of wear and laundering. Old jeans seem to totally fulfill that kinesiological theory of muscle memory; they have it, and they remember exactly where to give and where to hold in.

And this type of jean is authentic. Utterly genuine. The rips and tears and wear marks on them are earned, not engineered by some tiny woman in Romania. Like so many other things, man – and woman – is trying to emulate a process best left to nature.

I write all this only to ask, Do you know where I ended up on Friday as I shopped and philosophized? The men’s department.

Apparently, men are not as in love with spandex, legging jeans as a large portion of American women. They also don’t seem to love the tiny, elf-sized zippers, so, over there, I found 100% cotton, waist-high jeans.

I also found 38-inch waists and inseams that were a bit intimidating for a girl who’s had a clear 29-incher since junior high. Again, the essence of my being was not prepared for the beating it took that fateful Friday morning.

So, regardless of how you expected this story might end, know that I did not come home empty-handed. I am now the proud owner of two, brand-new pairs of shorts. Winter will just have to wait.