Taking off yet another pair of jeans that simply wouldn’t fit, I was on the verge of tears. Under the harsh glare of the dressing room lights, my reddening face felt even more humiliating as I shimmied myself back into my own clothes. I had dedicated the day to jeans shopping and started it feeling optimistic, but this was quickly waning. This was the sixth store, and the seventh pair I’d tried on. None of them were happening.
I question why I’ve spent hours traipsing around Oxford Street, dodging crowds and trying not to get hit by a black cab. Jeans shopping is not fun. It’s a mission. More than three years ago, I swore off jeans for the foreseeable future. At the time, I was practically living in a pair of faded black M&S high-waist, straight-cut jeans that were cropped right above my ankle. The search for those jeans had also been painful, so when I found this perfect pair, I told myself that was it – I was never going to buy jeans again.
