Shopping for clothes is a risk/reward endeavor. The risk is wanting to swallow cyanide after trying on jeans—sweating, twisting your limbs as despair creeps in. Most of my joint injuries have happened peeling jeans on and off. I find myself in fluorescent fitting rooms with deceptive funhouse mirrors and towering stacks of pants. It’s a result of low denim IQ—I don’t know who to be below the waist anymore. I don’t have a defined denim agenda. Boyfriend, Skinny Boyfriend, Straight Leg, Ankle, Modern Crop, High-Waist—all of it makes me want to throw on a tent-dress the size of a pool cover, or, as a friend calls her therapeutic home ensembles: Apartment Clothes.
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Photo by Getty Images, Don Arnold