Denims. The wearing of. The obsession with. And the servile gratitude towards. That is what the subject of this post is to be. It actually took me a long while to get my butt into a pair of jeans. Through school and college I wore dresses and skirts and was the good girl with the high collars and the full sleeves. Perhaps the mother was terrified that had I dressed more appealingly, the boys would be all over me. Of course, that was a mother’s fear. With absolutely no justification to it. I was the proverbial case from Bridget Jones’ reminiscences of her adolescence of the one time a boy followed her home and then fled terrified when she turned around to confront him, pudgy, bespectacled and braces and all. I could so identify with the adolescent Miss Jones and her angst at being so rejected by an eve teaser. I had absolutely no admirers, secret or otherwise. And with the inch thick spectacles, the globules of pus erupting pimples and the tree trunk of a waist, I didn’t hope for any. Kept the nose to the books and sought solace in Fabio like visions of the man who would sweep me off my feet. Well, he did and he bought me my first pair of jeans. By then of course, pimples had been tamed down by Clearasil, contact lenses had rendered spectacles redundant and the tree trunk had become a waist. Its to his credit that the man bought a pair of perfect fit jeans in the age before lycra with only his hands to guesstimate my size. And so begun the saga of the denim. Once I discovered how liberating a great pair of jeans could be, I was damned if I was going to struggle through waxing and depilating and such pains every week just so the damn gams were skirt worthy. Told you, I am the butt lazy sort.
Today, when I open the wardrobe door, vistas of denim unfold. Deep blue overdyed indigo, to blue wash bleached, to black to brown to beige. I have them all. From the pre-lycra era denims which are unforgiving to the butt and the ego, to these marvelous new creations of technology that give so much that one forgets one is wearing anything. From the prosaic Rs 250 Timbuktu from Spencers that one still gets into to the obscenely priced ones from Just Cavalli that one only dares take out if one is ‘going out’ and is feeling slim enough to dare to wear, what with its unforgiving fit that does good things to saddlebags but is sheer torture to get in…make that jumping up and down, lying on the bed and wriggling into and such like. All the stuff that makes the brat dance in glee and clap his hands and ask me to take it off and put it on again. I have them all, the skinny legs, the boot cuts, the relaxed fits, the cargos denims, the distressed and the ones that distress me when I wear them. What works best for me are dark plain denims in a slight bootcut, balances out the broad butt, with an empire line top. I rock when I wear that combination. A skinny leg, no matter how in it is right now, only makes me look like a chicken leg, all the fat on the thigh.
Au consequence my entire wardrobe is structured around denims. Casual tees for casual days, linen blousons for brunches and lunches, designer threadwear for more formal occasions. Thankfully, have never developed an affinity for salwar kameezes even on my ‘Oh God, I’ve become a little elephant’ days. It also helps that the husband sneers in disgust whenever I wear anything resembling a kurta or a kurti, and refuses to shell out the money for any ethnic wear. The sad part is that when I have to go to a formal function, I am generally scrambling in the mother’s or the mother in law’s closet for some worthy sarees. Have gone to the depths of laziness even in this issue now that I wear neutral denims and bling bling sequined embroidered tops or kurtis to less formal events where I can get away with them.
Therefore, this ode to denim. Long may it reign. And long may they invent better fits for expanding bodies.