Jeans, Jeans, Jeans
By Sophie Quindara
April 26, 2026
Graphic by Riley Carroll
Some people tell time in semesters: an assortment of classes and assignments and knowledge partitions versions of different lives.
Some people tell time in their hair: taking on a new color when the last one fades, letting heat damage take its toll, cutting off split ends, or keeping them for years.
I tell time in denim. The pairs of jeans I wear become my second layer of skin, the outfits I use to dress my avatar, the clothing I wear when I want the world to perceive me at my best. In my mental calendar, I see pairs of jeans laid out hem to hem, shades of blue and white and black, rips and stains and everything in between. With each new pair comes a new era, and with that, a new identity that I embrace. They may not be my only pair, but they’re my favorites among my selection. I find comfort in the worn threads until their sentence comes to an end and I replace them, time starting anew.
____________________________________________________________________________
HIGH-WAISTED ROCKSTAR 360° STRETCH JEGGINGS
I wore these jeans to fit in. They concealed me, clothed me well enough to slip between the cracks of middle school insecurity. I was invisible because I wanted to be, and the jeans made that so. They were dark wash and skin tight, bought sometime the summer before I started sixth grade when I learned I wasn’t allowed to wear leggings to school anymore. Jeggings were my happy medium. They looked like others, but were childlike at their core; they were me through and through. I liked to act all-knowing at a young age, but I now realize it was a front to disguise my fear. I thought that I could see through my peers, assume their intentions and determine them worthy or unworthy. I wasn’t in any place to judge, but somehow doing so made me feel less judged myself. My jeans let me watch from plain sight, an imposter in a sea of imposters. When I was scared, I wore these jeans. The first day of school, picture day, my first test – they gave me the security that I needed to succeed. I wore them on field trips, laying them out the night before in anticipation. I saved them for Fridays, like wearing them was a reward for the week. I wore them until they had holes in the knees where dark threads turned light, and the real me started to show. But for a while, I hid my fear under elastic denim and I dared to feel confident.
Graphic by Riley Carroll
____________________________________________________________________________
BLACK WIDE LEG UTILITY CARGO JEANS
I grew out of them. Not just in size, but in image too. I decided in eighth grade that I wanted something to show for my internal change: tangible proof that I had grown up before I got to high school. I traded in my jeggings for a pair the polar opposite – stiff black denim, wide leg silhouette, white contrast stitching, and a loop on the side for a hammer. I didn’t own a hammer, but if I did, I’d have somewhere to put it. These jeans weren’t me, but they were what I wanted to be. Trying them on for the first time felt like tapping into my true potential. So long were the days of fitting in – if I wanted to make friends in high school, I had to stand out. I had to pile on jewelry and makeup and top the costume off with the jeans that I wanted to embody, even if I didn’t have the character to fill them out. For the next two years, these jeans were my constant. I recall them having a certain rigidity that I credited to their durability, but in hindsight they were never comfortable. I tolerated them more than I wore them simply because I thought they were stylish. They were special and singular, but they weren’t me. They compensated for my teenage identity crisis as I found myself between no one and someone. They gave me space to mature under the guise of style. They might not have been me, but I wore them like they were.
____________________________________________________________________________
MEDIUM WASH LOW RISE SKATER JEANS
When the hems of my black pair didn’t reach my ankles and wearing them became a chore, I turned to the past. Not my own, but a stranger’s: someone who wanted to give their jeans a new life. I found joy in foraging through tightly packed rows of second hand stores, everything one of a kind. This store was frozen in time, seemingly filled with neverending (and never selling) skinny jeans, colored jeans, ripped jeans – nothing quite my size or my style. When I found these jeans it felt like a miracle. They had no tag, but the vendor offered $12 and I accepted without a second thought. These jeans are like my best friend. The perfect shade of blue, the hem just grazing the ground, not a single flaw to be seen. They were made for me. I dress them up and dress them down, wear them for luck and for fun and for special occasions. They never fail me, match with my every top, and feel comfortable on any given day. This pair also happens to be my now jeans: the pair I’m living as of late. The feeling they bring me is familiar, yet again, that’s what I thought of the last two. It’s only a matter of time until the next pair comes along to replace them, and these become a once-in-a-while pair of jeans. But for now, I’ll keep on choosing them. ■
Other Stories in Life
© 2025 SPARK. All Rights Reserved.