'I Love Jeans Now, But Why Haven’t They Always Loved Me Back?'
For as long as I can remember, blue jeans and a white T-shirt have epitomised cool girl chic to me. Popularised first in the 1990s by models like Kate Moss, Brooke Shields and Cindy Crawford, and later by the Victoria’s Secret Angels, Gigi Hadid and Kendall Jenner, the effortlessness of looking that good in just a pair of denims – in particular skinny jeans – has always been my Gatsby-esque green light: a dream that’s just out of reach, a beautiful lie. Because as I’ve grown older I’ve come to realise that it doesn’t matter how thin I am, or how pretty I feel, I will never look like an off-duty model in my jeans. And that’s ok.
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I came of age in the indie sleaze era, a time when the skinnier your jeans, the better. My sixth form allowed you to wear what you wanted, which for me meant Topshop’s much-imitated-never-duplicated Jamie jeans in black, styled with various cropped jumpers or Breton striped tops (never tucked in, it was a different time), plus Converse and a lot of eyeliner. My pin-up was Alexa Chung, another acolyte of the model-off duty look.
It was problematic to say the last. After all, the name 'skinny jeans' belies more than just their silhouette. In order to look good in them – hot dogs or legs style – it seemed it was vital to be thin yourself. In many ways, it’s unsurprising that the TikTok generation 'cancelled; them, hailing them as 'cheugy', as they are far better at body positivity than my generation was at their age. When I see photos of myself from this time I just feel… hungry.
Thankfully, in my twenties, indie sleaze went out of fashion and skinny jeans were replaced with 'mom jeans', wide leg jeans and other looser styles. Not that it affected me. Suddenly, I could no longer wear jeans at all. As a young journalist attending events with free-flowing booze and writing restaurant reviews every week, I quickly piled on the pounds. We were living through the era when the ‘thigh gap’ was viewed as the most desirable physical attribute, and the sight of my own legs touching completely put me off denim.
My perceived inability to wear jeans made me feel deeply unstylish. After all, in my mind, the model off-duty look was a shortcut to sartorial greatness. I became known amongst my peers at the fashion magazine I worked for as a bit of an oddity for my allergy to denim, with colleagues unable to understand why I didn’t even own a pair. 'Not even one pair?' No. 'But they’re a wardrobe staple, I couldn’t live without mine!' I’d feign a supposed preference for pretty dresses and try to steer the conversation on. Then the pandemic happened.
Like a lot of people, I used lockdown as an opportunity to get into exercise, and within a year I'd dropped two dress sizes. And the first item I reached for? A pair of those classic model off-duty wardrobe, some Levi’s 501s. Fitting into them – and liking what I saw in the mirror – meant more to me than the number on the scales. I finally felt like I fitted into the fashion world that I’d been a part of for over a decade. It was like that episode of Sex and the City, where Miranda fits into her skinny jeans again.
The hedonic treadmill is the idea that we have a base level of happiness, which we return to after major happy or traumatic events. So even when I found that I could slip into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and feel super chic and very cool, within a few weeks the glow had very much gone. It just became my new normal.
During pregnancy, I struggled at first to sacrifice the look I’d finally made my signature, instead carving a new sartorial identity in floaty floral midi dresses. But those jeans were the first thing I reached for postpartum.
Having a baby is an experience that fundamentally changes one’s relationship to their body. And while I know that I don’t look the same in jeans as I did before the birth of my daughter, it doesn’t matter. Jeans and a T-shirt is very much a regular in my mum wardrobe – it’s easy and comfortable. I can blend into any situation – there’s no danger of being under or overdressed.
My changing relationship with jeans over the past two decades is reflective of how I’ve come to appreciate my body for so much more than being thin. It’s also signalled my growing confidence too and an acknowledgment that I don’t need to be a supermodel to fit in within the fashion industry. I can dress like one if I want to, but the fact that I am still me doesn’t matter.
I’ve finally achieved what the model off-duty look was supposed to be about in the first place – effortlessness, rather than effort. It’s mum on-duty. And to me that’s the chicest thing of all – sticky fingerprints and all.
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