Wide Legged Acceptance

Or the fickleness of crowds

I moved to a new locale in the sixth grade, from a suburban environment to the country—a beautiful town under the wink of Mount Rainier, the kind of place where kids took a diesel-smelling bus to the slopes for ski school (we were that close).

I hadn’t paid any attention to my wardrobe prior to this time. I thought the burbs would be far more concerned about fashion than my new country locale, but I was dead wrong.

This was the 80s, after all, and we all looked like episodes of Stranger Things.

In my new school, my narrow legged pants were terribly out of style. All my new “friends” wore triple-stitched, wide leg jeans, the kind that engulfed your shoes, making you walk around footless. Everyone had elephant legs, and boy howdy did they like it—even if they tripped.

I saw the way the girls looked at me. How they glanced down on my clothing choices. Desperate to fit in at a brand new school and so very lonely, I began my campaign to convince my mom that I needed three pairs of elephantine jeans. Problem was, I remember how much they were in the little boutique store entitled Leo’s. Over $30 each, which was approximately 1,000 talents in today’s currency.

My February birthday approached. And my campaign turned to desperation. Please please please please please please please, I begged. My future in this cow-dotted place depended upon this purchase. I had endured five months of stares, and I knew that if I could just have these particular jeans, my social standing would improve.

And then the day came.

Three pairs of the widest wide legs known to humanity came into my possession.

So I wore a pair the next day at school.

And you know what happened?

…

Everything.

You might have thought this substack would be a cautionary tale about trends not satisfying, about clothing being a ridiculous substitute for self esteem. But no. I became instantly popular.

Finally.

From wallflower to insider, all through commerce and excessive yards of denim.

…

That became a powerful lesson that has chased me to this day. The lure of being accepted. The simple way to “pay to play” the social game. It’s just economics.

I learned: if you listen to the crowd, then obey its insistences, you will be accepted by them.

I know popularity doesn’t always work this way. But since it did in this sixth grade instance, the memory is imputed to me. I believed that to be accepted, I had to look a certain way. I felt so insecure about my clothing that I fretted often about it, then scrounged any money I could make to buy-buy-buy a nod.

…

I know now that fashion is superfluous. I know it’s fickle, too. There existed a violent backlash against all wide legs that morphed into senior pastor skinny jeans in the mid 2000s. No one would dream of widening their legs. But alas, the cycle has come back around, and my closet has some jeans my sixth grade me would give a hearty thumbs up.

We are creatures in wont of affection, admiration, acceptance. And sometimes money can buy that.

Except that this: those “friends” who finally accepted me were not really friends after all.

By the seventh grade I remember lamenting the fact that I didn’t have one friend. I didn’t know how to pray or even if God was real then, but I “wished” for just one friend. And I was deeply grateful for Kelly who became the sweetest answer to that yearning. Kelly’s jeans didn’t look quite right on her because of the scoliosis brace she had to wear, but I did not care one bit. What I needed was her kindness. Her friendship.

Wide leg jeans may have given me a temporary invitation into the inner circle, but they were a poor substitute for genuine community.

…

Today I have to fight that little voice that tells me, “If you buy this thing, you’ll be cool.” Of course I know that’s not the case, and I know that Jesus loves me no matter my pant leg width. But to be honest, I still struggle. There’s a wounded sixth grade girl inside me, on the outside looking in, who thinks that maybe just maybe she can buy her way to popularity.