Hate is a strong word, reserved more recently for Trump and, for me personally, cheese.
Perhaps misunderstood would be more apt. Though it is true that the trousers in question do stir up violent reactions of utter confusion and complete bewilderment.
It all started in Zara, as so many things do.
Those big glass windows will be my damnation, luring me in with their promise of a post-Christmas sale bargain. I was tantalised with expectation, excited beyond reason of what wonders could possibly await me. I walked my usual route around the store (anti-clockwise FYI) and found myself at a table not unlike those found at Primark- a tanglement of clothes, sprawled haphazardly around the place as to make a former shop girl like me, twitch at the recollection of folding and refolding clothes as quickly as arsehole inconsiderate customers flung them around the place. The mess was such as to make me question my commitment to the shopping cause / life.
To keep the boyfriend, who was *patiently* trawling behind me, from offing himself with a coat hanger, I reassured him that I was 'only' looking *insert smug smile here*. As all us girls know, there is no such thing as 'just looking' and it wasn't long before I spied a frayed edge so destroyed as to make me wonder whether my little dog had got here first. I fought with the tangled legs of jeans in search of the size tag, and would you believe the number was my own and the price was that of a Starbucks medium vanilla latte and blueberry muffin. For me it was a no brainer.
However, not so much for the boyfriend.
The reaction was not dissimilar to that of James Bond grappling with a baddie to get the gun and save the girl. In this situation, the frayed jeans were the gun, I was the girl that needed rescuing and the boyfriend was the hero. The determination in his face, the protective arm flung with such force as to almost knock me off my feet, the adrenaline was palpable.
I was confused.
In a rather meta moment, I felt like I was looking down on my life, witnessing his one-man action 'saving the world' moment. As far as I could tell we were looking at the same jeans, though one can never be sure what actually goes on in the male brain... Maybe he had been sucked into some time/space continuum thingy? Was he hallucinating? Or a mental breakdown? I stood hypothesising over which of the various maladies he most definitely was suffering with. He ended his saviour moment with a hero speech, something about 'not needing another pair of black jeans' and that I 'wouldn't wear them' and ended with a muffled snigger. I responded to his obvious aversion by immediately buying the jeans. I considered it a sartorial two fingers to the narrow minded, fashionably unimaginative boyfriend.
What I didn't realise at the time, was that this would mark the first of many, less than positive reviews of my jeans. Every outting has thus far been met with witty remarks of faux concern for my safety (did I get stuck in a shredder?) my financial well being (do I need to borrow money to buy a 'full' pair of jeans) or my future endeavours (am I auditioning for Robinson Crusoe? This one did make me LOL).
In spite of their polarising effect on the world, I remain defiant in wearing my jeans. Black needn't be boring and these jeans embody that sentiment, even if they do inspire an ongoing commentary at every wear. I'm encouraged to explore the manifest ways of updating my basic denim. I'm thinking fringing, beading, tassels... I'm not sure what excites me more, the denim diversity that awaits or the inventive ways I'm sure my family, friends and colleagues will find to describe my valiant denim efforts.
(Images via: The Fashion Spot)
