A love for denim

in mine the rule was you inherited your siblings’ clothes; a tradition I was particularly enamoured with since the little fashionista in me was eager to try my first mix and match experiments. The fact is, I longed for them – oh how I longed for them! Waiting for the day when they would be too short for him and just right for me, without taking the ‘P’ Factor into consideration.  

My mother had cute term for the posteriors of the women in our family: Patapeo. It was her funny nickname for our curves which she believed were a sacred trademark of femininity.

From that moment on, it was torment: my dream jeans ended up on my cousin, and I would periodically drag my mother to the jeans stores (I swear, they existed and that’s what they were called) where, to accommodate my Patapeo, a pouch would form at my back waist, like some sort of backward kangaroo.

I would reassure myself saying: whatever, with all the gorgeous skirts you have, who cares about a pair of jeans? To get over the blow, I spent a most of secondary school only wearing floor-length skirts, then at a certain point, I gave that up.

Time passed, I consoled myself with denim jackets, shirts and skirts, like the fantastic full one that always stole the show, until one day, there they were in front of me, a pair of flared trousers, a distant relative of those belonging to my brother

Not only do they fit, they even look good on me, and I can sit down without the risk of turning blue. And from that moment on we’ve been inseparable. In fact, I think DJ is going to put a ring on it any day now.