Forever in Blue Jeans.

On my 23rd birthday, when literally every single penny I had to my name went directly to bills and being able to eat and (barely) afford life in Boston on my very meager assistant salary, I decided to start a tradition.  For my birthday, I was allowed to buy one thing and one thing only for myself, a single birthday treat purchased without an ounce of guilt, something that my extraordinarily tight budget would normally not allow.  I wish I'd thought to record what each gift was to myself over the years - it would be fun to review the list from time to time. I can remember some of my splurge birthday treats extraordinarily well (tickets to see Wicked on Broadway, a pair of boots from Anthropologie that I wore into the ground and just recently had resoled, a turquoise tea pot) however, given that this tradition has had a rather lengthy run thus far, some of the birthday years blend together and I can't always remember exactly what I gifted myself and when.  Alas.

19 years and counting, I still uphold this birthday tradition, even though my budget is mercifully a bit less tight now at 42 versus 23.  Everybody deserves a guilt-free splurge now and then and the start of another trip around the sun still seems as good a reason as any in my book.  This year, for 42, I allowed myself to purchase a sweater I have coveted for years from a local NYC Boutique.  They specialize and sell all things related to the Stripe.  Obviously this aesthetic is very much in my wheelhouse. After admiring their Marin sweater for years and finally visiting the boutique on Madison Avenue, I pulled the trigger.  (Because this girl can never, ever have too many stripes to her name.)

Happy Birthday to me. 

Today has me reflecting a bit on all these old self-gifted birthday treats as I'm finally parting ways with a gift I gave myself for my 26th birthday; a pair of jeans that I definitely could not afford but fell immediately in love with at a local Boston boutique.  If memory serves, these jeans probably cost $125. Which is a dumb amount for jeans any time but especially stupid when you're living on your own for the first time in an apartment in the North End and eating PB&J daily trying to make ends meet.  Still, I tucked away some of that hard earned paycheck and let myself splurge the September that I turned 26 and my God did I love these jeans. LOVED them. I wore them every chance I got and I can still vividly remember how ecstatic I was one afternoon after I had moved to NYC when a woman who worked at Glamour magazine stopped me in the Conde Nast elevator to ask me what brand they were because she loved them too. To my young 26 year old self that felt like a true I've made it moment.

Now, truthfully, as much as I once adored them, I haven't worn these jeans in years.  Like any fashion trend their style has come and gone (and will likely only come back in style in another ten years...) They scream circa 2006 with their faded wash and bootcut style.  Still, I love these jeans because they were such a treat for myself, because they fit me like a glove, and because at 26, they gave me a whole new confidence boost and made me feel like I was finally a grown up with a grown up wardrobe. (Whatever that means.) I have moved these jeans from every apartment (6 in total) that I've lived in since I bought them and I've kept them folded up with my other jeans in the bottom of my dresser drawer for years, too attached to think about donating them.

But! I am 42 now and I'm in a serious state of purging items from my closet. Like almost everyone living through these pandemic times I've been taking stock of my wardrobe and doing my best to take a good, hard look at what I do and don't actually wear.  (Plus my denim drawer is absolutely bursting at the seams so it's time for some tough decisions.)

Anyway, I tried the old girls on again this morning, not even sure that they'd still fit. Win of wins, let the record show that 16 years later they still do  - just like a glove - which is further testament to their magic. Don't think that doesn't make me want to keep them forever and ever but I'm trying my best to remain firm.  They will still be on their way to the great denim pile in the sky this evening; but I'll admit that today I've been wearing them all around my neighborhood as part of their farewell tour. 

This sounds ridiculous, I realize, to be waxing poetic about a pair of jeans. And yet I know I will always have a special place in my heart for this old pair of denim dungarees. I will forever maintain that they set the standard in my jeans catalogue for hitting and hugging all the right curves in all the right ways. My first truly flattering pair of blue jeans. And as we all know, a girl never forgets her first.