To Find a Pair Would Make Me a Jeanius

Our relationship was intimate, y’know? We were the perfect fit. They were one of the only things in my life over the past few years to have been there with me unconditionally through the good times and the bad. But my favourite go-to item for almost every occasion has savagely become the victim of a premature demise.

The perpetrators in this case are my bum and thighs, the size of which I hold responsible for causing the material in the crotch to wear, resulting in an irreparable six-inch split in my trusty companions. More to the point, I hold the miscreants to blame for my futile attempts at finding any jeans with a fit loose enough to replace them.

Let me explain, however, that my aforementioned body parts are not fat. Nor are they overweight. If I am guilty of anything, it is that lifting heavy weights at the gym have developed them into a more athletic and muscular shape than, say, a non-athlete’s. But don’t get me wrong, I am far from the size or shape of the kind of muscle-bound mutants who grace the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine where a rear-view of such a body is easily mistaken for a cart-horse.

The problem, which now also fuels my frustration, is that whoever or whatever is responsible for the cut of the current style of jeans on the market assumes that all men are shaped like Gok Wan, which, incidentally, resembles something similar to a golf club. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I don’t want to look like I can drive balls 200 yards up the fairway. Or that, at 35 years of age, my very own pimpled jewels are being further deprived of an already diminishing blood supply.

 The simple fact of the matter dictates that I cannot find a pair of jeans roomy enough to fit over my legs and bum without looking like an X-Games competitor. Even if I didn’t have a problem with this, I don’t possess the pre-requisite pair of Vans shoes. Or a skateboard. And besides, I’m pretty sure I’m way past the legal age limit for wearing jeans that expose my underwear, even if wearing them halfway down my backside would solve the issue of finding a pair to fit over it.

I even desperately tried in vain to recruit the help of multiple Olympic gold medal-winning cyclist Chris Hoy on twitter recently. Judging by the size of his monstrous thighs, I assumed he would be the ideal person to furnish me with a recommendation but, sadly, I don’t think he took the request seriously.

I have on occasion been forced to buy jeans that are a waist size (or three) bigger in order to get them past my knees. The problem with this of course, is that I then have to live with a waistband strangled to within an inch of its life by a strong belt, which creates a rather feminine ruching detail to rival the neckline of my partner’s favourite blouse.

Recently, weaving my way purposely through the racks and shelves of the usual retail protagonists, I stopped to allow myself to feel a little less victimized.  I realised it was no longer solely about the fit.

I am astounded that the things they do with jeans these days can be considered anything close to stylish. As I froze almost hyperventilating, I shook my head involuntarily and looked up as if to implore the help of the big man Himself.

Quite frankly, I find the overuse of zips and cuffs offensive. Really? Cuffs?  Do we really need jeans that cling for dear life to our ankles? Are there no items of clothing that are sacred?

And as for the existence of skinny jeans, I’d like to keep a little of my age-appropriate masculinity thanks. I mistook some I saw for denim leggings until I remembered they long ago landed on the same fashion scrapheap where skinny jeans will undoubtedly end up. Thank God that nothing ever lasts long on the fickle fashion wheel.

I will now finally concur with my Mother, having listened for years to her griping, that the clothes in shops are all too young and trendy. Yet, in contradiction, we seem to be in an age obsessed with distressing clothes to make them look Vintage. Vintage? There are jeans no older than the coffee I just bought to get me through this debacle.

Alarmingly, no sooner than I process my thoughts on this issue do I fear I may be at that point in my life where just a few years ago I swore I’d never be; where one ceases to understand what drives modern style and fashion. Clearly I’m already here.

            I have arrived at the conclusion that obtaining the right pair of jeans is like finding a wedding dress. It is clearly something for which I should have planned since I was 9 years old. Even then I’d have to be prepared for a mammoth search until I found just the right one. And in the end the only way I’d achieve even a half decent fit is to have them tailor-made.

My partner of over 7 years is all too familiar with my mission to find jeans that fit me. Exasperated with yet another fruitless mission, she triumphantly expressed, “the next time we find the right ones you’re buying 10 pairs!”