I was eight when I got my first pair of jeans, and I had no idea what to do with them—which is ironic, since of all the pieces of clothing you can have in your closet, denim is one of the most freeing.
As a kid, I loved dresses. Thanks to repeated screenings of Disney films and living vicariously through Anne of Green Gables (the greatest movie ever made), I romanticized dresses, puffed sleeves, and floral prints. And if I did branch out, it would be to matching jogging suits, T-shirts and shorts, and stirrup pants with an incredible Beauty and the Beast print, if I do say so myself. Jeans seemed too cool, too adult, too something that seemed worldlier than my OshKosh sneakers. And then my aunt Daina bought me a pair of jeans from the Gap for my birthday. I was as enthralled as I was nervous.
My ascent into a life defined by denim was fast and furious. These Gap jeans quickly became my go-to. When I couldn’t afford to buy more, I would look elsewhere to get my fix: jeans on sale from Sears, a denim jumper from Northern Getaway. I quickly realized that jeans allowed for the amalgamation of selves. You could still wear puffed sleeves with a dark-rinse bootcut, topped off with a woven belt (as if Anne of Green Gables had stepped into TGIF). I felt like I’d found a world in which my fashion choices were endless. Plus, I took comfort in knowing that the adults I wanted to be like when I grew up wore denim, too.
Of course, the older you get, the more you tend to reject the person you used to be and the way that person once dressed. By the time I was a teen, I wanted my jeans ripped, worn super-low, and as far from the pretty-and-preppy versions I’d once loved so much.
Fast-forward to my twenties, and my choice of denim acted as a bold declaration of self: These are the type of jeans I wear (high-rise skinny), this is the person I am (hip and cool—not really, but try telling a 23-year-old that), and these are the trends I reject (traditional femininity, despite vying for the male gaze). Arguably, denim was the fastest way to convey all three.
But the less sure I was of myself as a person, the less I knew how to use denim (or any other type of clothing) to answer who I was and where I intended to go. I was, like countless people braving their quarter-life crisis, a young woman lost. So slowly, my style began to reflect that. Eventually, I had no idea where denim fit in anymore—or if it ever would.
In an attempt to overhaul the disaster my mid-twenties had evolved into, I began to cull any pieces that reminded me of my sad, struggling self. The first to go? Denim. Back in its place were the floral prints, the dresses, and slacks that were far more reminiscent of my child self than the woman I’d been growing into.
Denim was, for that short time, a symbol of my unhappiness, my sloppiness, and my self-destruction. So I began to dress for the job I wanted (see: a person who at least sort of had her shit together) instead of the job I had (a person with a lot to work through). Denim was one of my casualties, and it only took me a few months to miss it. Mainly, because dressing up all the time is a royal pain.
But denim is not. And few things can bridge the gap between the past and present like a pair of jeans you really like.
Denim never judges or insists you cosplay as somebody else. It doesn't reject the versions of yourself that you’ve tried on and realized you still like. It's the one wardrobe option that promises to evolve with you instead of insisting you continue wearing polyester shift dresses, despite how hot and uncomfortable they make you feel. You may grow out of a pair that took you through a few bankable life moments (RIP, my high-rise skinnies), but there’s such a variety of silhouettes available, you can always try your hand at the type that fits you right in that moment.
Denim isn’t a specific style. It’s a foundation on which you can build your own style. (Sometimes, only for a day.)
Of course, as all life lessons tend to, this one took me too long to learn. It was only this year that I began to understand that there’s no right way or wrong way to wear denim (and that I don’t have to shell out for the most expensive brand name for it to be good). For nearly a decade, I assumed jeans were either to be functional or fashionable, but failed to celebrate how well they can be both. And so I morphed into an elitist who believed that I wouldn’t be a serious grown-up until I’d forsaken what made me comfy and happy and confident for what didn’t. Which meant that I judged the people around me, believing that they didn’t have their shit together like I did, because they didn’t wear heels and dresses, as if wardrobe should ever symbolize that. As if denim should ever symbolize that.
But denim has long been a common denominator, a wardrobe equalizer. It’s as useful at school as it can be at work, and it’s as comfortable or uncomfortable as you personally prefer it. It conveys the subculture you relate to, the music you love, and the icons you’ve been inspired by, and it’s available for every person at every price range, should they elect to pour themselves in.
The truth is, 26 years after my first pair of jeans, I still see denim as something inherently cool. I still feel like my awesome aunts who assured me I could pull it off, and I still try on new styles, hoping I’ll feel as with-it as I did when I put on my first pair (knowing full-well that saying “with-it” means that I’m not). In fact, denim’s been my style constant in a life that very much hasn’t been. But that’s the best part of growing up anyway: A true blue will always be there.
Anne T. Donahue is a Toronto-based writer and the author of Nobody Cares. You can follow her on Twitter at @annetdonahue.
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