My grandma used to say: “Denim is dubious.”
I didn’t think to ask her what it meant before she died, but she never owned a pair of jeans, so I think it’s safe to say that it was a disparaging comment on the people that do wear jeans. Bloody communists. I however, like to think it’s warning to always try on jeans in the shop, because you just never know how they’re going to fit. This way, not only can I remember my Grandma as being a fount of useful tips and information, but also she doesn’t sound as intollerant as she otherwise might.
I bought two pairs of jeans today; identical pairs because I lack any sense of fashion imagination. I knew what size I was after (32” waist, 34” leg if you’re interested) so the entire shopping experience from go to woah only lasted 5 minutes. I was a shopping ninja – in – buy – out – that is, if ninjas had to buy their own jeans. Unfortunately, I didn’t heed my Grandma’s advice. I was cocky that because I knew my sizes and thought there was no need to waste time with the “try” before I got to the “buy”.
I’m now at home wearing a pair of jeans so tight that I’m sure my sperm count has dropped to, if not zero, then the number of bullets I would leave unfired if I was locked in a room with Kyle Sandilands and a loaded revolver – which is pretty fucking close to zero.
The other pair of jeans purchased, which are (seemingly) identical, fit absolutely fine – no unnecessary pressure on calves, thighs or groin which is both a physical & mental relief. Why the hell then, if they’re meant to be identical, do one pair strangle my entire lower section while the other, more reasonable pair, just make me look like a man in his early thirties desperately trying recapture his youth (the look I’m going for)?
When I hold them up, their dimensions seem the same, the labels and documentation claim that they’re identical, but there’s something deeply wrong with one of the pairs. I feel like I’ve just tried to buy healthy, identical twins from a small, poor country and flown them home to discover that one has cholera. Shit! Why didn’t I try them on in Malawi? I can’t turn up to my HEAT magazine shoot with a broken child.
Of course, if I’d just listened to my Grandma and tried the jeans on in the shop, I could have avoided all this whole palaver. I would be happy, my dead Grandma would be happy and you wouldn’t have just had to read a crass metaphor about an
adopted bought child. Still, if I had listened to my Grandma, I would have joined the army at sixteen to let the “beat the weak” out of me; so why don’t we just agree that A) old people aren’t always right, B) ill-fitting jeans aren’t the end of the world, and C) Malawi is no place to buy children.