What’s to make of a world in which one-percenters wear blue jeans, those who can afford to be cavalier with cash yet choose to look poor, with tattered and ripped jeans?
Where a Dead Head sticker is spotted on Cadillac, a line made famous long ago in an Eagles song. Or an Oingo Boingo sticker on the fender of a Bentley or Benz.
Honey, I tattered my jeans all by myself. I earned the patch-and-applique need with harsh detergents used to clear stains.
My favorites used to be a deeper blue, a color that near-matched my eyes. I’ve worn them and washed them over the course of a dozen years. They are faithful, steadfast, and well-worn.
They still fit!
However, mine are bottom-belled, which are now benignly referred to as bootcut.
Bootcut. The style which my legs prefer because my calves are exercise-toned. My figure is not womanly, so a larger seat is not required. Yay for that small favor of nature. I adore jeans because the fit eases the longer they are worn. Jeans look good, even when quickly chucked and left in a lump on the floor.
Jeans never need to be ironed.
Jeans fit my lifestyle, that of a writer, a walker, a talker, and Boomer-aged chicka. Jeans are stalwart. Jeans are blue – need I mention that blue is my favorite color? They are my uniform from the 60s, from growing up in farm country, though not on a farm.
What might farmers make of billionaires who co-opt their work uniform, eschewing Brooks Brothers suits?
What’s to make of a world where billionaires co-opt the default uniform of the poor, the worker bees of a nation, the fashion of the hippie 60s, the tribal garb of farm workers?
Does co-opting yesteryear help them relax or feel like they earned respect?
Do they know they’re wearing the protest uniform from the 60s?