Usually, with a new trend, or fashion, or look, whatever you like to call it, I trail in at the tail end finally deciding that something looks nice when it’s been around quite a while and is definitely no longer the cutting edge of style but more the ragged hem of what-everyone’s-wearing.
But here we are still with skinny jeans and I just can’t do it. They’re not new any more. They’re not remotely just “what the young people are wearing”. They’re just jeans, to most people. I’ve been trying and failing to embrace them for about five years now. And no matter how long I give it to “get my eye in,” it’s just not happening.
I think this is what happens when you’re middle aged. I think I have discovered how Mom Jeans came about. 90s moms genuinely couldn’t see that hip-slung, flat fronted, boot-legged jeans looked better on everyone – as we, their daughters, knew. They really truly thought, because their brains were stuck that way, that high-waisted pleated fronts and baggy thighs tapering to the ankle were the most flattering thing there was.
So now my brain is stuck at bootleg or flare for the rest of my life. Sorry, but that’s just how it’s going to be. I can fake it with a skinny jean now and then, and I can buy floppy tops and swoopy sweaters and I can enjoy the neverending hunt for the perfect boots to show off with them. I can pretend I like it, for a while; but when push comes to shove I’m always going to run back to my old jeans with the acres of material flapping round the ankles (flatteringly; balancing out my thighs), dragging in the puddles and letting the rain osmose all the way up the backs of my legs, and I will clutch them to me and murmur sweet nothings into their yielding, forgiving denim, and I will not abandon them.
This is not the first time I’ve talked here about my attempts to embrace the skinny jean and its unbalanced silhouette, but I’ll stop now. I’m done. I’m a sad middle-aged housewife in America, and my flares and I deserve each other. We’re all we’ve got.