Charlotte Latvala: Time to say goodbye to jeans

It’s time to end a relationship with an old friend.

So long. Farewell. Auf Wiedersehen.

I know what you’re saying: Couldn’t you work it out? Can’t you find some common ground? Or at least, let her down gently?

And the answer, dear reader, is a firm and resounding no.

My soon-to-be former friend is inflexible, unforgiving, and honestly very uncomfortable to be around, especially after a couple of glasses of wine. For decades, she’s embarrassed me, angered me, and — worst of all — pinched me.

Goodbye, jeans.

Am I being too dramatic? On the contrary — I’m not being dramatic enough. Denim has been my go-to since I was old enough to view Bobby Sherman as marriage material. Growing up in the 1970s, blue jeans were the uniform. It wasn’t even a question. You got up, you put on your jeans, you went to school.

What I’m saying is: I literally couldn’t imagine not wearing jeans. They were the foundation upon which my entire concept of clothing was built.

Sure, there were variations on the theme. There were hip-huggers, high-rise, straight-legs, bell bottoms. (Oh, were there bell bottoms. It’s surprising none of us got picked up by a strong northern Ohio wind and dumped into Lake Erie on our way to school.)

Later, I had ripped jeans, embroidered jeans, jeans in bright colors.

Mom jeans. Relaxed fit jeans. Jean skirts, even.

Recently, I’d noticed that my latest pair of jeans (semi-stretchy, euphemistically-named “curvy girl” style) were not making me feel great. They squeezed and tugged and refused to accommodate any squishiness. It was a standoff because I refuse to go up a size. (I know we live in an era of body positivity, but I grew up in the era of Cheryl Tiegs and I can’t shake it.)

Anyway. I had the misfortune of having a 48-hour stomach bug a couple of weekends back, resulting in me eating very little for a few days and losing five pounds. And while I realize this isn’t a rational or necessarily healthy thought, I rejoiced in this silver lining.

This is it! I thought. I can now open negotiations with my jeans again. Five pounds, in fitting-into-clothing terms, is monumental.

I eagerly pulled on my jeans. The words “svelte,” “leggy” and “coltish” rattled around in my brain.

And fell with a resounding thud.

The jeans felt exactly the same. They cut into my stomach. They gripped me too tightly. I couldn’t wait to peel them off.

And I had a revelation, right then and there in my bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. All this time, I’d been blaming myself.

But it wasn’t me. It was the jeans. And the specter of Cheryl Tiegs, bless her waifish prototype.

I could wear what I want, no matter what my size is. And what I want is yoga pants. And loose, swingy skirts.

And no denim of any kind. At least not till Bobby Sherman makes a comeback.

Charlotte is a columnist for The Times. You can reach her at [email protected].

This article originally appeared on USA TODAY NETWORK: Latvala: Time to say goodbye to jeans