It’s that time of the year again. The dreaded time of the year.
Your ‘babies’, ‘lifesavers’, ‘wardrobe essentials’, ‘can always depend on’s’, quite commonly known as …THE DENIM JEAN have become all tattered and torn and quite frankly are felling very sorry for themselves. You have been putting this day off for months but now its time, you have to man it. You must brave the shops and face the dreaded task of deciding on denims. Dont get me wrong, I am a girl who absolutely loves shopping, to the extent where my heart
races sprints at the thought of it. But personally, I cannot think of anything worse than the task of shopping for your denims… it frightens me!
What should be a very simple task turns into a catastrophe; your palms are excessively sweating and your developing a major migrane…alll over denim! I’m sure something should be subscribed on the NHS for this.
See here’s the thing; there’s the wash, the cut, the price, the label, not to mention the trend, the fit and the time-consuming task we all have to consider when buying jeans.
There are the skinnies, the flares, the bootcut, the straightleg, the boyfriend and the cropped. But not only do we have to like a style, we need to see what suits us. For example, girls who love the skinny jeans just may not have the skinny genes to suit them, so they will have to settle for the straight jeans. Which consequently can affect our status in society, right?
The denim skinnies only hang around with other skinnies, but the denim flare… well they can only be with fellow flares. But really? Have we really become that shallow to judge people, based on what they wear. We as women, should embrace the fact that we all have to live with the impossible tasks of finding the perfect denim and work as one together.
But it’s not all bad, I mean surely the self-satisfaction of succeeding and actually buying your denim jeans, is all worth it in th end. When you are in the changing rooms and you pull up those bad boys, they hug in all the right places, and hang in the right places too, you feel like it’s a job well done on your behalf and have become more of a woman because of it. Probably a sweaty, mascara smudged down the face, knackered woman… But you’ve done it.