Some may find this hard to believe, but I never wore jeans a day in my life until I hit college.
I recall being in third grade and begging my mom for a pair of denim jeans. I wanted the same cool pants that my friends were wearing at the time. What I got instead was the famous speech that “I pay for your clothes and you’ll wear what I tell you too”.
I don’t know when my fascination began with denim, but I do know my dad (a master carpenter) lived in them. To me, they represented comfort, function and style. To my mom, they were less than feminine and she wasn’t going to spend good money on something that she thought belonged on a boy.
I guess did grow up a tom-boy of sorts. Climbing trees (would have been easier in jeans – just saying) was my go-to activity, along with falling out of them. I loved my Fisher-Price tool bench just as much – if not more- than my Barbie Camper. My first foray into construction was when my dad handed me a plastic hammer and some nails. I don’t think he thought for a minute that I would be able to pound them into the drywall he just hung. He had to rethink his strategy while repairing the mess I made.
For me denim jeans weren’t ‘boys clothes’, but instead represented freedom. Freedom to do cartwheels or climb the monkey bars on the school playground without flashing everyone. Freedom to express myself when I finally was able to own a pair. Freedom to add my own artistic flair to them when I discovered how to do embroidery.
An opportunity to be comfy and classy at the same time. And freedom to just be me.