I still have the Jeans

At a party recently, I asked a woman what she found most rewarding about her work. I’d known her for roughly six minutes. She gave me a thoughtful answer, then asked what I enjoyed most about reviewing clothes for GRACE. We listened, nodded, asked considerate follow-up questions. I was beginning to suspect we could do this all evening without finding out whether we actually liked each other.

Meanwhile, she was wearing these enormous green earrings. One looked slightly longer than the other, and I’d been trying to work out whether that was deliberate.

Finally, I asked.

She reached up, felt both of them, and said, “Oh, shit. I’ve put two different pairs on.”

Well. Now I liked her.

She’d bought both pairs from the same woman at a market, gone back for a third, and somehow ended up helping her pack everything into a van during an argument with her ex-husband. I had questions. Actual questions. Within ten minutes we were talking about terrible purchases, jewelry from exes, and whether keeping something expensive meant you were sentimental or simply not an idiot. She’d kept a bracelet and sold the matching necklace. I respected the financial independence of this arrangement.

Daniel eventually gave me the patient, slightly exhausted look that meant he was going back to the bar. I registered this well enough to move aside and let him pass. About half an hour later, I reached behind me to touch his arm and found a side table. Apparently he’d left me in excellent company.

We talked for an hour. I’ve forgotten what she does for work. We’re getting lunch next week.

Maybe GRACE had nothing to do with the polite little interview we started with. People were having boring conversations long before anyone put a bud in their head. But I recognized how readily I’d settled into it. I knew how to be attentive, how to make room, how to ask a question that showed interest. Somehow I’d managed all three without asking about the one thing that actually interested me.

I’ve been thinking about that while getting dressed, too.

There’s a pair of jeans in my closet that I haven’t worn out in months. Low waist, faded denim, a little thong showing above the back. Yes, that look. You’re welcome to have an opinion. I certainly enjoyed wearing them.

I felt sexy in those jeans. Not elegantly dressed. Not beautifully put together. Sexy. Occasionally I’d like to enjoy that without having to explain what else I bring to the community.

I didn’t stop wearing them because I review GDT clothes. I have plenty of other things in my closet, and reviewing a beautifully tailored dress does not require me to surrender my ass to corporate custody. Nobody told me to put the jeans away. I just started reaching for something else.

I knew that little strip above the waistband wasn’t exactly going to earn widespread appreciation. Too much. Trying too hard. A bit tacky. Whatever. It became easier to choose something I wouldn’t have to feel self-conscious about, and after a while I stopped considering them at all.

That was my decision. I remember making it. I also remember being perfectly happy in those jeans before I started mentally inviting half of Silverdale into the fitting room.

If GRACE draws on everyone’s input to advise us, I do wonder what happens to the things only a few of us like. Presumably there’s plenty of useful information in knowing what generally goes down well. But I’m one of the people contributing to that, then dressing with it in mind. How many times do we all make the easy, well-received choice before the less popular one starts feeling vaguely wrong?

I still wear the jeans at home sometimes. Daniel remains extremely supportive of this particular item of clothing. His interest in excellent tailoring is, on these occasions, limited.

Recently, though, I caught myself thinking of them as something I keep to drive him a little crazy. A private thing. Almost embarrassing to admit to. Apparently I now own a faded pair of seduction jeans. Somewhere along the way, an outfit I used to wear out became something I felt more comfortable saving for my boyfriend.

And yes, I like what they do to him. I also like what they do to me. I look in the mirror and think, oh, there she is.

The jeans are staying. Whether I’ll actually wear them for coffee is another question, and that pisses me off more than I expected. I used to put them on because I liked my ass in them. Now I’m standing in front of my own closet considering whether that’s a good enough reason.

We’re changing. I can see the good it’s doing, and I’m doing it too. But damn it, why am I embarrassed about a pair of jeans I still feel beautiful in?