Joanna Topor

The Good Jean Pool
An opinionated overview of designer jeans

The Denim Dance
Shops with all--or most of--the right moves

Someone once told me that your twenties are an extension of your adolescent years, but without adult supervision. While it's true that starting adult life is as angst-ridden as going to high school, what raises the stakes is the lack of a level-playing field. And nowhere is that inequality more obvious than in the clothes we chose to wear. In high school it was easy; you tried to wear what everyone else was wearing. Even if you couldn't pull it off as well as the rich kids, there was some comfort in the fact that you all had to show up to homeroom. As an adult you get a blank fashion slate, a chance to redefine yourself without your mom butting in. As I listened to my friends casually mention that they dropped $200 on a blazer or $60 on a white T-shirt, something became painfully obvious--my wardrobe hadn't grown up. As I settled in to adult life and started paying bills and student loans, I started making fashion compromises that I thought would go unnoticed. I was no longer on my way to becoming the funky, sophisticute twentysomething I knew I could be. Nowhere was that more obvious than with my jeans.

Everybody has a defining fashion moment. Mine was in the ninth grade. I was wearing a pair of Big Star bell-bottoms, a black T-shirt and my Doc Martens. A dorky seventh grader came up to me in the hallway and said, flat out, "I like your style." That compliment was enough to keep me satisfied until now. But as I thought back over the last few years in terms of my clothing--refusing to pay more than $50 for a pair of jeans, buying off the sale racks, and clinging to favorite sweaters and vintage tees--I couldn't help but wonder: if that seventh grader met me now would she still think I was cool? I realized that I had lost the confidence and fashion curiosity I had growing up.

Along with a new pair of jeans, I needed a jarring, life-altering, redefining fashion moment. And I knew just what it would be: I would put my compromised fashion sense to the test and try on designer jeans all around the city. I would either end up with a great pair or validation that I had been right to be skeptical about designer culture all along.

Buying jeans has always been a huge psychological battle, so I expected to get tested along my quest. Most of us witness denim faux pas every day, especially in the age of the low-rider. I personally lived in constant fear that I would be the one with half my ass hanging out of my pants or the victim of an unsightly back-fat roll caused by jeans that were too tight, so I clung desperately to my Roxy's. I wasn't sure that I was ready to learn that I had no place in the land of designer brands.

Then, as fate would conspire, a friend forwarded an article about custom-made jeans that went for $1,000 a pair. The price tag not only reflected diamond-studded buttons, but also had something to do with the denim used to make the jeans. Supposedly the weave of this particular fabric was so tight that it cost $40 a yard as opposed to the $2-$3 in most designer jeans. If these jeans were made from a higher-quality denim, then maybe the designer jeans I'd been hearing about really would prove to be a better value (and if they ended up resurrecting my increasingly distant 18-year-old figure, I couldn't lose). So with guilt in check and credit card in hand, I set out to buy my first pair of adult jeans.

My rules were simple: I would try on anything at $150 and up, hitting all the major shopping areas: the Loop, Bucktown/Wicker Park, Southport and the Gold Coast. I would not buy any jeans until I had visited all the stores on my list. To offset salesperson bias, and for encouragement in intimidating boutiques, I enlisted the help of my favorite--and most opinionated--shopping companion Cassie. Together we would evaluate selection along with sales-associate helpfulness and, ultimately, my rear end.

Our first stop was Nordstrom on Michigan Avenue. As I stepped into the dressing room, my arms awash with dark blue, I couldn't help but be a little excited. This could be the beginning of a new denim-enriched life. I first tried on a pair of Juicy Couture and as I pulled them up over my thighs, fighting back visions of the anorexic Olsen twin, I held my breath. What if this was a complete mistake? What if my butt was beyond repair? I turned to face the mirror and was totally caught by surprise. Not only did they fit, it was as if they had channeled JLo's tush.

I started picturing my new life, full of designer denim and cute shoes. How could I have been so narrow-minded? There were tons of fashion opportunities available to me. Sophisticute here I come! I should have known not to be so optimistic so early in the process. It's true that as Cassie and I went from store to store trying on jeans, I was able to find jeans that fit amazingly well. This is not because I am 5-foot-10 and weigh 100 pounds. In fact, my body proportions were something I was reminded of at every turn. It seemed as though every store came with at least one itty-bitty fellow shopper who would taunt me with things like, "I really like these, but if only they came in a smaller size. I guess I'm just too little." I never had that problem. Since all styles of denim currently sit on the hip, I was averaging anywhere from a size 28 to 30. Sizes, I soon learned, that exist at the higher end of the designer spectrum.

The stores fell into two categories: those that wanted to blatantly test your neuroses and those that were subtler in their assaults. There is nothing more depressing than standing in your underwear, under florescent lights that seem to emphasize every ripple in your skin, asking a waif-model-thin sales associate to grab you a larger size. Actually, there is something worse and that is being told that she would have to look in back to see if they have a bigger size for you. Then there are the stores that go out of their way to help calm you, with encouraging staff that eagerly provide suggestions and dressing rooms lit with white lights and adorned with throw pillows. But like the popular kids in high school, you can't help but second-guess their friendly advances. What if you get comfortable and ask a stupid question? Will you lose your sales girlfriends? Of the sales associates that actually paid us attention, none seemed very knowledgeable about the brands their stores carried. I held up two pairs of 7s for one associate--one for $165 the other for $218--and asked what the difference was and she answered, "Oh, they're just different cuts." Then there were the sales associates who totally ignored us. I expected this at places like Saks Fifth Avenue, where we were quickly ditched for Louis Vuitton-laden socialites, but when three sales associates were busy with the same customer at Tangerine on Damen, I couldn't help but take it personally. It's depressing to learn that, even as an adult, nothing makes you feel worse than being ignored by pretty people.

I was amazed at how much self-criticism and analysis could be packed into one weekend. I was ignored and romanced, told I looked cute and encouraged not to eat. Finally, I selected a pair of Citizens of Humanity from Krista K on Southport. But as I stood in line waiting to make my purchase, I couldn't help but wonder, was owning a pair of $170 jeans selling out? Would I soon be maxing out my credit cards trying to keep up with the Britneys of the world?

The only way to survive in the fashion world is to stay true to your ideal self. The sooner you accept the fact that not everything looks good on every body, you'll be on your way to finding what does work for you. But the one fantasy you can't let go of is the one where you're walking down the street and everyone stops to turn because you look so good. The second that's gone, you're back to thinking you can let yourself slide. I decided that as long as I kept my wits about me I could look good on my own terms. What would my seventh-grade admirer say to that?

Luckily the thought didn't stay with me too long because on the way home I found the cutest secondhand store with the best vintage tees.

(2005-03-15)

Also by Joanna Topor

The Beauty Bunch
Spa parties are what Carolyn Brundage does best, from blowout charity events to smaller pamper-oriented soirées
(2005-01-04)

Stranger than fiction
Looking at him, you'd never guess that Augusten Burroughs has had the most surreal life imaginable
(2004-10-06)

I want candy
After reading the first few chapters of his book, "Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America," I was convinced that I was related to Steve Almond in some capacity
(2004-06-02)

The glowing horse and carriage
In the last decade, television shows like "Friends" and "Sex and the City" have tried to inundate us with the idea that you don't have to settle down to get the best of the coupling world
(2004-02-11)

What's in a name
(2003-09-10)

A stab through the heart
(2003-04-09)

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