Lately, I’ve been subjecting myself to a special torture: the search for a good pair of jeans.
In theory, the jeans I’d like to find are “easy” –– structured but a little loose, dark but not too dark, true denim but buttery. In these jeans, I could eat a full omakase dinner. I could hitch my leg over a cattle fence, or shuffle in tiny heels at a jazz club. I could get pulled onstage at a Bruce Springsteen concert (a la Courteney Cox in the “Dancing in the Dark” music video).
I had aspirational visions of myself wearing Levi’s. Maybe I could be one of those lucky browsers who plucks vintage 501s from a pile, finding they perfectly melt to my hips.
I blocked off an afternoon for my Levi’s pursuit, beginning in a curated vintage store in Soho. There, I was entrusted to a sprightly employee in light-wash low-rise, two tooth gems sparkling on her upper right canine. She addressed me as “Babes,” and assured me we would collaborate through trial and error. She educated me on the 501, apparently a men’s jean (hence the weird crotch-gapping that was happening in several pairs). I knew the collaboration was over when she brought me a pair of Wranglers and suggested I visit their other location. “I don’t believe in buying jeans you don’t love, babes,” she said, frowning.
Farther down the street, I ducked into Aritzia, a place I once bought a pair of black spandex shorts to wear under dresses in middle school. Now, the establishment was blasting hardcore club rap and seemed to specialize in a variety of pinstriped vests. They carried a few pairs of Levi’s, which I brought to the cursed dressing rooms. For reasons devised by a male executive, the curtained stalls do not have their own mirrors. Instead, customers must venture into the communal fitting space in front of the 20 people lined up on a Sunday afternoon and the miscellaneous male companions humiliated by their own existence on a low pouf.
The ’90s 501s were just a tad too baggy, and I needed to try a size they didn’t have in stock. Hands trembling, I ate a crumbly protein bar on my way to the official Levi’s store, leaving a trail of sunflower seeds down Broadway.
Inside Levi’s, I perused a wall of medium washes until I was informed I was looking at men’s jeans (apparently in 2024, 501s can be made for a woman’s body!). The salesperson who corrected me had the authoritative air and earpiece of a manager –– I felt reassured to have been found by someone so capable. Soon, though, he guided me to the women’s section, where I was handed off to a teenager with a voice like a cartoon character.
At this point in the afternoon, I was irritable with Mr. Levi Strauss. Probably this employee had been born with this voice, and probably she couldn’t help it. Probably, the voice had made her the victim of ruthless teasing or other impertinent comments. Still, and I’m not proud to admit it, I was instantly suspicious of the exaggerated baby-like timbre, the tone of a talking animal or a pixie. It didn’t help that she seemed new to the job –– equivocal about sizing, uncertain about fit questions. I fled to the dressing room to avoid expressing my brimming sourness.
A man in a Death Metal shirt smelling like cigarettes placed me in a room. The room had a button to press for help, like the kind over airplane seats. I pushed it for sizing assistance, and no one came. Exiting the room, I slipped past a German family eating sandwiches in the hallway. The Death Metal employee directed me to a style scarily dubbed “The Ribcage” and encouraged me to try a smaller size. I resented this; what did he know of the struggle of eating peanut noodles in high-waisted pants –– the delicate act of tugging down one’s shirt to conceal an open top button? The technique had gotten me by for a while, but as an alleged adult, how long could I keep it up?
I returned uptown empty-handed, except for a green shirt I’d picked up in a Swedish store between Aritzia and Levi’s. “I like it very much,” my friend texted when I sent her a photo. “It’s like a tank top but different. Fancy Tank Top !”
A few days later, I took a pair of jeans to the tailor, where he patched a hole in the inner thigh that had been gaping for months. Suddenly, they were wearable again, and I was no longer jean-less. I’m still searching for my “easy” pair of jeans, but until I find them I’m sticking to vintage –– that is, old stuff from the back of my closet.
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Looking for something to watch or read? I wrote a few recent pieces for Vogue about the best ’90s movies, historical fiction books, and content about cults.