What turned into a quick post about my new workhorse trousers turned into a reflection about how seventeen-year old me would shake his head at such a purchase.  Upon further review, I’ve decided to put together a multi-part story on why it took me so long to finally get a nicely fitting pair of pants on my legs.  I’m hoping you’ve been through the same, dear reader.

The Evolution of My Pants, Part I: The Price of Fitting In

 If your misunderstood, angst-filled youth took place around the early 2000’s in American Suburbia, then the following statement should apply to you, or at least for my sake I hope to God it does: I’ve once owned a pair of girl’s jeans.

Such was the uniform of the early-era “Scene kid.” 80’s punk wore ripped jeans and black leather jackets, unifying a growing subculture.  2000’s hardcore threw on basketball shorts and baseball tees, allowing perfect mobility to activate the pit. But as bad luck and worse taste would have it, I chose the path of the early Scene.

A quick lesson on this “Scene.” From what I remember, in the late 90’s punk started moving towards a heavier and more complex sound, led by prototypes Refused and At the Drive-In. Once the sound inspired more bands to form, a fire caught in the hearts of the youth, who screamed and danced together in tiny venues. As a subculture, the genre was followed by a dress code, which I neither understood nor questioned. The Scene’s pieces of flair included the front mullet (regrettably detailed here), an edgy lip ring (mine lasted all of twenty-two hours before my mom threatened to kick me out of the house), and of course, those damn girl jeans.