So today I decided to wear a pair of mom jeans I got from Goodwill. I blame this fully thought out decision on my affinity for West Coast stylists’ Instagram feeds. I was instantly brought back to a time when I didn’t even have an understanding of the world, but these jeans sure as hell did. This time was 1990, and damn did my ass look great in 1990. I soon noticed the faded outline of a cigarette box on my back right pocket, a faded memory of what once was. I headed up to the coffee shop to write my ten page essay, but right before leaving the house, I swiped on some NARS dark matte berry lipstick so everyone knew I was wearing mom jeans, but only sarcastically. I’d left the house hoping that everyone who came in contact with me and my $8 mom jeans assumed that I was that cool kid in high school who would smoke Marlboros underneath the bleachers with a Jordan Catalano look-alike. The whole ordeal would naturally be sound tracked by Nirvana.
I get to the coffee shop ,order my iced Chai with soy, strategically pick my seat against the wall, and start typing away. About an hour into this ordeal, in a completely empty and somewhat chilly hipster coffee shop, a 40-something year old businessman sits down next to me. Right next to me. Businessmen, with their J Crew button ups and Banana Republic slacks aren’t really my type. Also, twenty-year age gaps aren’t okay with me unless your name happens to be Jared Leto or Brad Pitt. I like to imagine that the mom jeans provoked this generically dressed businessman to take a seat next to me. Perhaps the mom jeans reminded him of his mom when he was a kid in the 70s. Maybe his mom would turn on Maury before retiring to the back patio to pull out some Camels for a smoke break. Perhaps she looked like a hazy Southern summer in Ohio in her high-rise Levis and peach spaghetti strap tank top. She would ponder jumping in the hot tub to sunbathe, accompanied by her Anne Rice novel. Maybe it was this lethal combination of desire and nostalgia that drew his Black Friday Special slacks to sit themselves down next to my hazy southern Levis. Perhaps the sight of my jeans caused him to crave his mother’s racial slurs with a side of Kraft mac n cheese for lunch. I don’t know, but he looks like the kind of middle-class Griswold salesman who is on his coffee break and thinking about his Midwestern childhood. I’m afraid to confirm this thought with him because I know the follow up question will, naturally, be “How was the Tori Amos concert?”
My mom kind of just looked at me quizzically when I told her all of this. I thought it was one of my life’s great hallmarks.
Now I don’t think I look bad in my mom jeans, but I don’t look like the girls on Tumblr either. I’m beginning to wonder if the girls on Tumblr are even real. Unclear.
What I think I look like in my jeans:
What I actually probably look like:
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