I’ve never been a person who is extremely aware of the fashion world. My past experiments at trying to look nice have often resulted in disasters that leave my friends and family shaking their heads at me.
I know three things about the fashion world. Versace was a friend of Elton John, Kate Moss is so skinny its unhealthy, and Chanel makes nice, expensive dresses – a fact I only know as a result of the Simpsons.
I have a vest that I think is cool but is shunned by everyone else. I learned that wearing my orange Oasis t-shirt underneath a green, short-sleeved button-up shirt is a fashion faux pas, as well as wearing brown shoes with a black belt.
After these failed attempts, I resigned myself to being a simple dresser. Rather than blow others away with style, I would bore them with consistency. As a result, I relied on the standard “jeans and a t-shirt” look that has carried so many other clueless dressers. This was something simple, classic and non-threatening. Something I could pull off, even without any sort of fashion sense.
Or could I?
For my whole life, I wore the same jeans. Jeans are safe. Jeans are dependable. Jeans are like the gold standard of clothing.
I was shocked out of my world of demin comfort two weeks ago by my girlfriend. She pointed out a fact that was so embarrassing, and so shocking, that I can barely write it. Reader, brace yourself.
I wore “tapered” jeans.
But that’s not all. I wore these jeans unwittingly. Although every person that came in contact with me realized it and immediately made a judgment about my character. I wasn’t hip. I wasn’t cool. I certainly wasn’t with it. In fact, odds were I had no idea exactly what “it” was.
What’s sad is that everyone in my life noticed and kept their mouths sealed. My sister claims she told me to get new jeans “years ago.” One of my housemates claims the same. Every person I have talked to since my first purchase of non-tapered jeans has told me they noticed, but just “assumed it was you.”
My girlfriend’s friends constantly teased her and asked if they could sneak into my house and burn my jeans. A former girlfriend of mine apparently thought it was “cute.” Even my brother, who is in eighth grade, noticed and neglected to tell me. When I outgrew jeans and my mom passed them down to him, he would refuse to wear them.
Apparently those close to me adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy towards my fashion choice. I felt like a soldier in the United States military circa 1994. Because I was oblivious to my dated jeans, no one felt the need to tell me that I looked like an idiot.
If you want to define oblivious, my experience in this situation is a textbook example. I noticed the differences in other people’s jeans in much the same way people noticed Oasis’ win at the recent NME awards show – that is, very little.
My ignorance, coupled with my friends’ inability to break the code and tell me how I looked, resulted in my clothing decisions. But thanks to one brave soul – that of my girlfriend, nonetheless – I have been transported through the looking glass. When I walk to class I glance at the shoes and jeans of other students – instead of making eye contact, like I had been taught – and notice that I now look like everyone else.
I suppose a part of me has died. As I walk around the newsroom and feel my jeans catching on the bottom of my shoes or dragging across the floor, I realize that the cold grip of the fashion world has finally clenched around my neck. Gone is my individuality.
A new Jardy will rise from the ashes of my old jeans. Once I let my friends burn them.
Adam Jardy is editor of The Lantern and a senior in journalism. He will gladly accept donations to be put towards buying new jeans at [email protected].
