I bought new jeans.
For those of you who might be confused about the magnitude of that decision, allow me to explain.
I own 75 articles of clothing and am deeply committed to keeping that count consistent. If I purchase new jeans, I have to trade out an older, often beloved pair.
This quota leads back to the Paris Climate Agreement, an international treaty adopted at the 2015 United Nations Climate Change Conference aimed at limiting global warming. The Hot or Cool Institute, a think tank that researches sustainable fashion, released a 2022 report stating that a “sufficient” wardrobe consists of 74 to 85 articles of clothing in order to meet the treaty’s global temperature target.
I did not get my hands on this information via a think tank report—I read it in Vogue.
Throughout my tumultuous high school career, I challenged myself to align my lifestyle with my political values (She was 17! She was stuck in the suburbs! She was woke!). That meant adopting sustainable practices I discovered in magazines and condemning myself to a life of minimalism, thus limiting my options when it came to purchasing denim.
Jeans are an unequivocal staple of the teenage American wardrobe and, even beyond, stand at the heart of fashion and culture around the world: our favorite celebrities model them, beloved characters don them in popular media, and you can buy them virtually anywhere.
Jeans have become a kind of global uniform. Therefore, the nuances of each pair take on greater meaning. We lament the impossible decision between high-rise and low-rise; bootcut and wide leg; light wash or dark. We scrutinize the number sewn into the waistband, hoping that if we stare at it long enough it might just get smaller. The denim we wear communicates parts of ourselves to the outside world, providing others with a system to categorize us within a universal standard.
Somewhere along the way, the “jean” became less of a pant and more of a physical manifestation of who we are, or hope to be. The right pair of jeans has the ability to distinguish you from the masses and transform you into the most authentic version of yourself (plus make your butt look good).
Turns out, my denim dilemma wasn’t a phase. Ironically, minimalism continues to take up space in my life, requiring attention and intention. And, this lifestyle does complicate matters when I choose to buy something new.
Thankfully, I was able to find two new pairs of jeans that I liked without a problem. Now, I am immersed in the painstaking process of determining which of my old pairs I am going to donate or recycle. Let’s take a look at the contenders:
1) My mom bought me two pairs of Hollister’s “Ultra High-Rise Dad” jeans before I started working as a busser in a local restaurant. Nearly four years later, they’re falling down, worn with holes, and still smell faintly of a Jojo’s Crispy Chicken Sandwich. Since leaving the restaurant, I struggle to remember what my life was like before passing periods with a parade of Longchamp bags and 80 pages of nightly reading. These jeans feel like the last piece of what once was, a lifeline to the world that I know best and love most.
2) I took a pair of my mom’s bootcut Lucky Brand jeans with me when I moved out. Growing up, these pants were the epitome of class and sophistication. They were my mom’s “nice” jeans, something she bought but couldn’t necessarily afford, and were to be treated as such. I watched closely as she transformed into a different woman each time she slipped them on. No longer a single working mother worn thin, but a dazzling woman whose passion for life commanded attention. Part of me hopes these jeans will do for me what they did for her: transform the mundane into the near-sacred. Unfortunately, I’m not yet my mother, so her jeans now suffer from a tear in the knee from a fall on the sidewalk and charcoal stains from my evening drawing class.
3) As a recent high school graduate, I purchased vintage Levi’s from a British e-consignment shop. This marked my entrance into the climate movement: I was standing for something, crafting tangible change. Were the carbon emissions emitted transporting a pair of pants across the world greater than if I just bought some at Target? Probably. Do they fit me well? Not at all. Is it time for them to go? I’m still attached.
I still don’t know what to swap out. I’ve carefully pressed and folded my new jeans, and there is little room in my dresser for the old. Staying true to my commitment, it’s time to let go—not of the life I’ve lived, the people I’ve loved, and the things I’ve stood for—but the ratty, ill-fitting pants that barely pass as acceptable in public.
In the last year, I moved out, left my hometown, sold my childhood home, and my family started over in a new place. As I change, I think it makes sense for my wardrobe to do the same—not on the premise of the latest trend, but in accordance with the person I’m becoming.
While my old jeans, and the person who wore them, have served me well, I’m looking to allow the present to take up more space. I want each of my precisely 75 articles of clothing to reflect where I’m going, rather than memorializing where I’m coming from. There is a time and place for heartbreaking nostalgia, but there’s also a planet to save—and I just don’t have the room in my closet.
