Jeans are a pain, aren’t they? Don’t get me wrong, I have as many pairs as anyone else but for me they aren’t the solid, catch-all comfy-yet-sexy utility wear that perhaps they were intended to be.
They never fit properly. Or if you ever do manage to find a pair that fits, it will be after having tried on fifty pairs in a tiny cubicle, having got yourself tangled up and fallen over your shopping and lost the will ever to shop again. Jeans are invariably either too tight on the thighs or you can’t do the waist button up or your bum really does look too big in them.
And you must never buy jeans that are actually your size because you’ll find that the second and subsequent times you put them on, they have gone loose and baggy and sack-like in their unflatteringness. Until they shrink in the wash. And then you’re left undoing them in a singing lesson in order to breathe and finding that they fall down around your ankles as your disdainful and reluctant accompanist looks on in sneering amusement. Or so I’m told.
Jeans are too hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. The low waist hipster ones uncover your midriff and I’m sure your granny always told you that the way to keep warm was to keep your kidneys covered. My granny did not tell me that, obviously, because she lived in India where there is rarely any need to keep yourself warm. Denim attracts water and mud, and take ages to dry in the winter and the mud stiffens your jeans so that it’s always difficult to get your boots on again the next day.
And as for distressed jeans: why can someone not push the imagination envelope a little and have a vertical slit of distress on, say, the thigh rather than that inevitable stylised tear just on the gnarled part of your knee?
I shall not be wearing jeans this winter. I have ordered leggings and shall be wearing them with long tunics – in effect a Westernised churidar kurta – because leggings are not trousers and I do not particularly want to show my posterior to people. Leggings are practical and allow one to breathe and exert control over one’s abdominals for the long phrases of a Fauré chanson. Down with jeans! Up with leggings!