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.

Allow me to justify.  Long before skinny became a profitable aesthetic in men’s clothing, the existing options were to tailor your own jeans, or muster the courage to buy a pair from the ladies’ section.  As much as the former option sounded much more reasonable, the latter suggested a true commitment to the subculture.  It was winning a game of chicken, for which you paid with shallow front pockets and a shallower crotch.  When you’re vying to fit in the group, you’re willing to let go of as much dignity and comfort as the next guy.

Then there’s the subject of androgyny.  If fashion returns in cycles, boys in girls’ jeans was certainly an extension of glam metal.  Mötley Crüe kicked out the spandex and glitter to woo the girls, girls, girls, solidifying their look as essential as their riffs. The Scene revived the fit, but changed the flavor to complement the genre’s taste for broken hearts, guttural introspection, and existential dissatisfaction; in short, I learned to favor black, gray, and deep reds, ‘cos that’s what emotional looks like, man.

As a kid who had no real personal style outside of trying to copy my hero of a big brother, I was grinding out gen ed units at community college, unsure of any career options, sleeping through Dashboard Confessional over a couple bad breakups; this was all fodder for infrequent Livejournal entries.  I embraced this subculture to gain a sense of direction.  For that I’m grateful, but also aware of how easy it was to completely change my appearance for the sake of belonging.  Not once did I ever feel comfortable with my hair covering my forehead, and I sure as hell didn’t feel secure in a pair of girl’s jeans.

The first lesson in the journey of my pants: make changes to your personal style for no one but yourself. Now, you could always find inspiration from others, but only adopt it if you feel at home with it. Every now and again I’ll pierce a kilt pin on my necktie, which is my own nod the maestro Beppe Modenese. Adapt, appropriate, you name it, just make sure it’s you.

And for the record, I wear men’s jeans now.  Slim.