My One Pair

No no no, please do not take the above title as some tongue and cheek way of describing my endowment. This is about my one pair of jeans. My first pair of Dior’s. Yes, an entire piece dedicated to a single pair of jeans. Do not get fooled here people, everyone has that one thing they cherish. Mine so happen to be my jeans. With every whisker, every rip and every stain comes a story. This all coming from a guy who takes entirely too much pleasure in staring at the drape of his suits. Yes, even I dress as a lay person occasionally, and when I do, my jeans paint a picture of my life. Let me tell you a story; actually a few stories, so if you’re not into stories, read this anyway.

The first crotch blow out

You ever get the feeling something bad was going to happen? Instinct tells you NOT to perform flying high kicks as you exit the elevator of your now girlfriend’s apartment. Yet, for the shear joy of knowing I got lucky that night, I leaped, and mid jump, I hear the rip. The whole thing looked similar to Air Jordan circa ’94,  but with less oowing and awing. The walk back to the car was breezy to say the least.

The ripped belt loop

Given that my jeans are made of denim (shocking, I know) they can stand up to abuse. This is why I didn’t make it a habit of caring what I did in them. It’s quite liberating. Well, maybe I should’ve paid a little more attention to the handle on the door left ajar in my Arts class. Listen, if you’re going to run out of any lecture hall, just make sure the exit is WIDE open. Don’t squeeze your way through a sea of students. Happy Hour can wait. The gaping hole on your waist is not worth the $2 shot on Tequila Tuesday, I promise.

Oh dear Lord, I have to soak them in what?

A year into wearing jeans, you figure one might wash them regularly. Oh, not I. Denim is made for cowboys, and ruff folk. I dared not wash them. I wanted to embody every bit of musk and man smell I could. Again, mistakes are made so we can learn, right? My date that night so happened to be the one learning. Smelling homeless loses it’s nostalgic value within the first, oh say, 5 seconds of being within radius of said smell. Sorry, girl. My bad, really. Soaked them for a good hour in what I learned to be detergent… cool stuff.

Safe to say, my jeans are retired now. What I wanted to find was something to ease the pain, something that would remind me of all the fun times I had. Then I got an email from a friend in New York. He was ranting on about some denim company he stumbled upon while shopping. Simon Miller. Two words that changed my whole outlook on denim. So, I now wear my Knolls in the M002 wash. Listen, they aren’t my jeans I grew to love at all… they’re better. MUCH better. From the selvedge denim, and wash. The feel and fit, man oh man, these things are stupid good. I wear them just as much as I did my other pair, if not more. Maybe I’ll build up a new collection of ridiculous stories in them, just don’t tell my Dior’s, okay?




Neil Watson

Editor At Large