Jean Therapy

The best pair of jeans I ever had was in high school. They were dyed navy blue, had a button fly, and fit my skinny pins perfectly, which is always an issue, as I have—as Micki has frequently put it—disturbingly long legs. I won't speak to the density of my stockpile in those days, however. I may have had three pairs of jeans, twenty t-shirts, a handful of favored flannel shirts, and a teenager's penchant for (or lack of) self-care, but of all my clothes, that one pair of jeans was perfect.

By the mid-90s, they wore to the point of tearing. One of the knees blew out, and I retired them, a little heartbroken, to be used as choring wear. The thing is, I distinctly remember wearing those jeans even with a hole in the knee for chores, not because I needed them, but because I had become so attached. I loved them.

Despite my love of Grunge music, which was quite new in that era, I wasn’t Eddie Vedder or Kurt Cobain, so I didn’t wear torn jeans to public school. The rest of their style I adopted, but torn or shredded jeans is where I drew the line. I still have that same sartorial instinct. On a walk about the neighborhood with Micki, several years ago, I fell and tore out the knee of a pair of grey chinos that I loved. Aside from the pain of the skinned knee, we went straight home, and I tore them up for rags and put on something with full knees in them.

Today, torn jeans are the fashion. I hear myself writing this in my head, and I know that I sound old, but I’m not criticizing so much as remarking. On a recent dinner date at our favorite local sports-themed restaurant, I counted no less than nine people wearing jeans with whole sections missing. Thigh, knee, shin, just gone. One person (they were all females) had so many holes, they were more akin to poorly made shorts than jeans. Fashion, for me, has a great deal less to do with looks and more to do with practicality. A good pair of jeans looks good, yes, but they are also reliable at keeping one’s legs covered and protected, which is the point, right? Maybe not.

Morbid curiosity impelled me to look up what a pair of dismantled dungarees cost, and I was stunned to find that a good pair of fashion-forward holey jeans went anywhere from $60 to $160, depending on the retailer. Imagine paying that for a partial pair of jeans. Style is important—too important. Humans like to look nice, and at some point, trends and fads dominate our thinking so that, if we’re not wearing what the cool kids are wearing, we feel as though we don’t fit in totally. This ought to end a minute after it starts in middle school, but it lasts through the professional years, too. I just don’t see how shredded jeans, no matter how trendy, can ever really be useful. Other than large bits of thigh, shin, and ankle showing between tiny strips of denim, what do they do?

Now, I have to say this here: I own a pair of jeans that I wear for yardwork that have a pretty significant hole just below the fly. I noticed this one day while wearing them to a friend's house to clean up leaves and debris from a fallen tree. I hope I'm the only one who noticed. Other than this one failure of the fabric, they did yeoman's service for keeping my legs safe from saws and axes and flying chips and splinters. I only wear them now if I'm working alone in the yard. They aren’t appropriate for anything else. They only lasted a few years, too, which is unusual for jeans.

Actually, industry standards have fallen off somewhat in the last few decades. I wear jeans every day, and they lose their shape, their color, and their durability very quickly compared to what I used to be able to get. Also, it must be said, jeans in my day (ugh, that phrase!) were not woven with stretchy fabric. It took months of wear, maybe even years, before you got them just right. They were hard-wearing, though, and dependable, and unless you gained some serious weight, they fit just right for even more years. 

When I outgrew something, a common problem for a kid who reached six feet in third grade, my mother would bring me to the VF Outlets, as we called them, and stock me up. Jeans in those days were not what you would call stylish, at least not the ones I was getting. They were coming pre-faded, or “acid-washed”, but they were still like putting on cardboard. They required a great deal of stretching and bending. Early on, she would wash and hang them dry outside, which reinvigorated whatever fabric toughness they were woven with. They totally resisted prickles and thorns, were impervious to grass, mud, sand, grit, ice, snow (so long as they didn’t get soaked), and fire. They were easy to clean, relatively inexpensive, and, if I didn’t grow out of them too quickly, lasted forever.

The first time putting on new jeans was always disheartening. They were stiff, and the creases could bite tender skin. They also had massive brass zippers that were the closure equivalent of a grinding maw near one's most delicate parts. It was best to never be in a hurry when zipping up, as that zipper could mangle like throwing a hot dog to a hungry Doberman. This is why I loved those button-fly jeans so much. It took longer to undo the fly (best not to wait until back teeth were floating) and a bit longer to redo them, but there was never any chance of damage to the male anatomy. 

Jeans in those days didn't require a belt. They were a bit longer in the loin area, and one could be assured that, bending or stooping, the pants wouldn't rip or slide down enough to reveal a partial view of foundation garments. This is one area where modern jeans have failed every test. I always wear a belt and have done so for years, but even with a belt strapped tightly across one's midsection, bending or kneeling causes the back of the jeans to slide down. They can pull down skivvies and untuck a shorter undershirt. Thus, I am forever pushing my shirts back in and hitching the jeans up. Anatomically speaking, I’ve got super long legs, as I’ve said, no butt to speak of, and a long torso. Because jeans are now made to fit the greatest common denominator, I have trouble finding long handles that fit my specific needs. They either come with absurdly short legs or absurdly wide waists or both. I’m not judging. I’ve been tubbier than in my whole life in the last eight years, but I never went above a size 38 waist. Now that I’m back to something more like when I was in my 30s, despite the normal changes to one’s body and the inevitably odd body shape that the universe granted me, buying jeans can be difficult.

Most styles are preshrunk, which is helpful. I remember getting a pair of jeans for myself, on one of my first forays into the world of buying clothes with my own money. They fit perfectly, looked amazing, and I remember feeling truly excited about them. I took them home and washed them to get out the sizing and that new clothes smell, and when I went to put them on the next time, I nearly broke my leg trying to get it through the pant hole. When they were finally on (not zipped or buttoned), I almost wept. They were, like the Grinch’s heart, three sizes smaller. 

Shrinkage of that sort is not common anymore. However, black jeans (which are what I like to wear for work) fade quickly. The sable beauty of a new pair of jeans begins to fade after just one washing. Soon enough, they are charcoal grey. They still wear well, considering all the emotional and stylistic accommodations I have to make for them, and they don’t shred at the knee quickly, which is nice. They’re Levi’s, which I never wore before, having always been a Lee man, but you gotta get what you can get.

My grandmother was a seamstress, and she, like the Animals song says, sewed my new blue jeans. Nana was amazingly gifted when it came to making clothes, and all of our baby and toddler stuff was of her vintage. One of her former coworkers gave her a bolt of truly traditional indigo denim, and she bought rivets and golden thread. Jeans of the true, deep indigo, are now popular again and can be seen worn by gents two decades my senior who can make casual look like a GQ cover. I'm not a fan, per se, but probably because of my earlier experiences.

Nana's jeans were hard. They were almost black, but the bright golden thread and brass rivets were fodder for my school peers to mock. They were straight-legged dungarees, but that is not what is meant today. Nana, bless her, cut the legs dead straight. If one could run in those jeans, excess fabric to either side of the leg continuously flapped against the other side. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was already a laughing stock for this and the bright yellow twine, they actually made crinkling sounds when sitting or standing, and turned my legs blue. Jeans made from new sailcloth would have been more tolerable.

As a kid, it was almost impossible to say no to clothes from family, so I took them, and after begging to be allowed to not wear them, I only wore them when I visited Nana. On those visits, I was usually hanging with Uncle Dan, and not likely to cause hysterics with him, as he usually wore the same style. 

Jeans today come in so many shapes and sizes that it can be hard to find anything even remotely close to my “style”. I wear jeans daily, so I like to have multiple pairs of the same black color and style, which, like Einstein (and this is the only way I'm like Einstein), I only have to pull an outfit, not think about it. Saves time and mental power for other things, like walking into rooms and forgetting why.

Modern fabrics have all but made denim irrelevant in its former role as tough-wearing, resilient trousers for the hardworking cowpoke or welder of radio towers. I can buy a pair of pants made from fabric that makes them warm in the winter, cool in the summer, flexible, stain and moisture resistant (I sweat a lot), and essentially water resistant. As it happens, I do have some of these, and I like them. This style of lower-half coverings is great for hiking (jeans are not, and I'm getting to that) and packs beautifully in tight rolls. Many of them can also be worn more than once and resist odoriferous emanations caused by unavoidable flatulence or a day of hard, sweaty work.

Jeans are tough, resistant, and durable. They don’t keep you warm in the cold or cool in the heat. If they get wet and it is cold, you could be in the worst situation of your life. They are great for work, if you're allowed to wear them, and while they are perfect for just about any situation, from heavy labor to the GQ gent cover, they aren't welcome for most office dress codes (except for Fridays, if you've paid your dollar) and only for undercover police work. 

I'll never understand paying full price for a partial pair of jeans, but then, I'll never understand fads where people wear things because other people say it is cool. The chunks of missing denim fad is, I think, an attempt on the part of Big Fashion to see just how far they can take absurd ideas before the public says “Hell no!”. So far, the public hasn't uttered a peep.

Even so, I like jeans. They just wear harder. They really are the ideal fabric for tough, outdoor activities in dry, moderate weather. Given the chance, I would add jeans to a list of free, perfectly American things that anyone and everyone could order forever. 

The next time I blow out a pair of jeans, though, I can just cut chunks out of them and be really hip for a while, and I can use the squares of fabric left over to wave away mosquitoes, snakes, and maybe UV rays.