Jeans Shopping is Not for the Weak

Last week, my cousin and I managed to successfully transport ourselves from my house to London, without mishap. (No stolen bags, no lost money or forgotten keys – well, I did temporarily forget how to close my own front door but we weren’t burgled, so I’d say a success) We were off on our second adventure together to Westfield shopping centre. In between mouthing the words to newly excavated songs – thank Spotify ‘Discover Weekly’ for my seemingly quirky and fun discoveries; sadly no credit to myself – and giggling intermittently, I decided that today was the day to buy some new jeans.

Before this mundane story unfurls itself, I’d just like to put in this note: I am terrible at buying jeans. Worse still is that I kind of need them: I’m currently only really wearing one pair of Topshop Joni jobbies, as my other identical-but-black pair have gone slack and crumpled around the knee (as if my knees have trimmed down and the rest of my leg just wasn’t feeling an intensive work out). Moreover, I am super bad at buying clothes, but I feel that will need a whole other dedicated reel of words.

As soon as we entered this beast of a shopping centre, we found Topshop and I tried on a few skinny pairs: one suffocating and the other just not right (watch, this becomes a recurrent theme).

So, onto Zara: six pairs hung limply on my arm were as successful as they sound. Six.

(DISCLAIMER: Not to say that any of these retailers make pants trousers; I just mean that for me and what I was very specifically scanning for, they weren’t right. But not horrendously so. I think my body shape is at fault, as well as my thinking. I am also literally on the opposite end of a fashionista, so clothes aren’t my forte. Anyway-)

A lunch break was in order and then more shopping/manic hunting and hurling jeans over my arm, shoulder, face, anything. River Island, Pull&Bear, American Eagle Outfitters, Hollister. By the end I was so downtrodden I gave up, so we got churros. If you ever need a smile-enabler, steaming, cinnamon-and-sugar encrusted churros, dipped in pure, melted chocolate is not a bad shout (M&S advert descriptions, here I come).

Now a week later, I’m trawling through the Internet’s realm of every kind of trouser description. I think I’ve found some I actually like, but like everything ordered, I’ll have to wait to see if they actually fit…

However, on this under-averagely-exciting journey, I have come to the conclusion that jeans’ shopping is a brutal affair that must be fuelled by a clear head and content stomach. (I would say ‘full’, but no one wants to stare at a harshly-lined mirror protruding angles of your body you didn’t even know existed, let alone when you’re feeling blobby from a meal.) You need to become the predator, stalking for the perfect fit and colour. I now know, 25-plus pairs later (I worked it out and, yes, I do believe I tried on this many at Westfield) that high-waisted is my comfort zone and they have to be stretchy enough for me to randomly fling my legs in the air in wild, filly-like excitement (it happens). I also know that petite jeans may have to be considered, especially in the shops where the material was more ruffled around my ankles than an 18^th century shirt.

If you are currently on the lookout for jeans, I wish you the best of luck (sounds melodramatic but it’s needed) and please let me know if there are any high-street shops worth investigating. Writing this proves how much I need it.

Get some churros in you yo