A contemplation by a parcel delivery service – perhaps based on the number of team ups of jeans that get sent back – found that most in the flesh think other people shouldn’t wear jeans after they’re 53. Why 53? Report in to that, why jeans?
The answer to the second question may explain the total. Jeans are universal, intergenerational and global. They can be invisible or really in your face. Nine tenths of the world’s population – not a precise number – must have owned a pair at some on occasion. So pretty well everyone is going to have a view on when to stopping-place wearing them. Why 53? Just to be annoying.
Like all the most peeving “studies”, this stinks. It is random fashion police pursuit that is nothing to do with fashion and all about making one platoon of people feel bad about themselves with a side of schadenfreude for every one else. Maybe there are now thousands of people squeezing themselves into their emaciated jeans thinking, at least I’m not 53, while those of us who are a) past 53 and b) rely on jeans for daily wear, feel if not misguided then at least a bit self-doubting.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that age is extraneous, just that judging what is age appropriate is totally individual. It’s a factor along with all the other factors that stick in ones oar with leaving the house, like does my bum look big/my twits fat/insert personal phobia here. The only rule is that there are no oversees, just like all the other so called rules about what to put on.
From long and sometimes costly experience I have cultured that if I ask myself if it looks a bit young, the answer is that it does. Not that I each time listen to my inner adviser, which is why there are dresses in my clothes-press that I never wear because they make me endure a bit like Grayson Perry. Obviously, a subliminal yearning for girly frocks is some lenient of eruption of suppressed regret for the curvy figure I never had.
Maybe jeans, in the eyes of the judgmental, are a bit less tolerant than most other clothes. If you look like Kate Moss, then in a way that unconditionally no other single item of clothing can, they convey the I’m-not-trying-but-God-I-just-can’t-help-looking-amazing faction of style. Maybe, if I peer into my underdeveloped fashionista vitality, I should acknowledge that jeans, more than any other individual choice, do carry a subliminal “don’t write me off” message, a teeny scintilla of avenue cred that clings like a ghost of what one at any time a immediately imagined one was.
But the thing about jeans is that, just counterpart bodies, they come in an infinite variety of shapes and styles. For each brace that makes some bold statement about the wearer there are a thousand others that well-grounded happen to be the nearest clean thing in the wardrobe. And the more fossil and decrepit I get, the more pleasure I shall have from the one emotional attachment that looks mildly in touch with fashion, while also being ring washable and never in need of the iron. I wonder if they impute them baggy enough for wearers of continence pads?