Earlier this year, I found a pair of Skinny Jeans on ASOS.
They were gorgeous. Perfect shade of blue, very light distressing, ideal length and a little bit of moto-detailing that gave them an edge. I didn’t own anything like them, but ever since I saw the first image of Kanye West wearing the Balmain biker jeans I have always wanted something like them (only without the $10 K price tag).
And so when I saw these jeans on ASOS, for only $60 and in a size 38 (which to be honest is borderline my size these days – I’m more likely a 40 after trying to eat myself into an early grave over the past 10 months); I didn’t even think about the fact that they were listed as Skinny Jeans and I clicked my mouse a couple of times until the sale had processed. It wasn’t until hours later, when the skinny little bastards were already on their way to me by courier (which is, quite frankly, a terrible feature of shopping with ASOS now) that I realised what I had actually just done.
I had at thirty-years of age, just purchased a pair of skinny jeans.
Skinny jeans have always seemed like a bad idea to me. As someone who has never, ever been skinny, wearing something with that word in the title has always seemed like a really obvious lie. To my mind it is sort of like throwing a sheet over my head and yelling “Ooooooo! I’m a ghost!” No, you’re not a ghost, you just have a sheet over your head. Skinny jeans feel the same way to me, even though I know the name references the cut of the jean more than anything else.
Me squeezing my ample hams into two stretchy tubes of cotton-lycra blend and saying “Ooooh, stylinsh skinny jeans!” has always seemed like an incredibly bad idea. I might as well put a pair of neon pink lycra tights and scream “Hey everyone! Guess where I am hiding all the KFC that I have eaten over the past 20 years?”. As someone who tends to be anxious and hyper-critical of himself at the best of times, I have to ask why I would every think owning a pair of skinny jeans was a wise idea.
And when they arrived and after I had tried them on and judged myself in front of my mirror; I waited two whole weeks before I would even bring myself to wear them out in public, convinced that someone would see through my lie. That someone would step out from beside my field of vision and politely whisper “I’m sorry Mr. Heino, I hate to have to be the one to break this to you, but the jeans have not worked and you are in fact still fat.”
The sheer ego of the self-hating fatty to believe that anyone out there gives the slightest of shits about whether or not I’m cramming myself into realistically a-size-too-small skinny jeans. And what’s more, when I finally did wear them, I realised something even more profound: NOT EVEN I CARE! I am undoubtedly my own biggest fan, and even I couldn’t care less how I was lying to myself and to society at large with my ‘skinny jeans’.
And so I have taken to wearing the skinny jeans A LOT, and I went ahead and purchased a second pair of them for when they inevitably fall apart, and I love them. They’re comfortable, people tell me they look good, and in all honesty they probably do more for my figure and self-confidence than any other pair of jeans I own!
So, moral of the story? Stop listening to that naggy critical version of yourself that lives in your head and buy the skinny jeans or whatever your version of the skinny jeans is! Live dangerously!