Designer Jeans

I went to high school at Our Lady of Victory Academy. It was a private Catholic school not run by the Archdiocese of New York, but by the Sisters of Mercy. And the fact that our school was run by the sisters of Mercy gave it its character. The sisters of Mercy were progressive (for nuns). The sisters of Mercy were the first of the religious orders to whip off the nun uniform: the “habit”--and wear street clothes. And but for the cross around their neck, the nuns could easily be confused with lay people. Sister Margaret Costa, our young perky assistant principal wore her skirt so short that when she sat down at school assemblies her who-ha winked at us.

Anyway the first Friday of the month, we were allowed to abandon our dowdy uniforms and wear street clothes and that included “ dress” jeans. It was a privilege. Other schools had “non-uniform” days—but rarely did the allowance include jeans. And in 1974-1978 our jeans were really really tight. Girls would have to lie down and use a hanger to pull them up. And our polyester printed Huck-a-poo shirts were super fitted and slipped like WD-40 into those tight fitting pants---and they had to be--- or the zipper, even with the hanger wouldn’t go up. And In 1974-1978 the Catholic church pretty much deemed jeans as sexually perverse. They were considered pornographic. They incited premarital sex. And premarital sex was strictly forbidden. So wearing jeans was scandalous—and being permitted by the nuns to be scandalous was really scandalous.

The correct word is cathect—it means to love an inanimate thing as if it could love you back in a human way. And in the spring of 1978-- on a first Friday of the month—a non-uniform day—a day where the sisters of Mercy permitted their students to wear jeans--I fell in love. My heart went pitter patter and my mouth went dry. I could not avert my gaze. I could barely speak. They were dark blue (nearly black) denim and straight legged. They had  golden stitched omega swirls on the rear pockets and a white label with red lettering on the top right corner of the right rear pocket. The button on the front had the brand name embossed in a circle. They rocked my world.  They were the first pair I had ever seen in person. Amy Acampora was wearing Calvin Klein jeans. And they were awesome.

And aside from the innovative clean style that set it apart from the bell bottomed faded multi-zippered jeans of the day, Calvin Klein jeans were well outside of my personal budget. They were like 3x’s my budget. And even though they might have been within my parent’s budget, there was no way my depression baby parents would ever spend that much money for a pair of “dungarees”.  That was unheard of. That was crazy. They cost more money than a Gunne Sax prom dress from the junior department at Bloomingdales. But I just HAD to have them. And I made myself a promise: I would save the money myself and buy them—no matter how long it took.

And it took me months to do so since I was also saving to put money towards a car and I only made minimum wage at Dobbs Ferry Pharmacy. But by Christmas I almost had all the money. And by then my mother—who always loved fashion--- understood my obsession—and she gave me the balance as part of my Christmas gift.  I loved her for that. And I went with my friend Tina to a high priced boutique in New Rochelle to purchase them. And I loved them like they were a person. And I would look in the mirror to admire my butt--because my butt looked so sensational in them—it was because of the omega stitching. And together with the jeans, my new ensemble included  a cranberry collarless silk blouse that my mother had given me for Christmas with a cordovan Aigner belt and Dingo boots-- and I just couldn’t get over myself. And I fell in love with those jeans a full 2 years before nothing came between Brooke Shields and her Calvin Klein jeans. And after that commercial, I had to buy another pair—along with my Jordache ones.

But I never loved a pair of jeans as much as I loved my first pair of Calvins. And when they finally wore out I was sad. They were my favorites. I felt so special when I wore them. And I do not buy expensive designer jeans anymore unless they are discounted or come to me as one of my daughter’s cast-offs. And when my daughter Samantha was in the eleventh grade and begged me to take her to National Jeans in East Williston to buy her first pair of designer jeans and a matching “going-out shirt” I relented. I understood.  And I was able to allow her the joy that I too had once experienced. I knew the definition of cathect. Sometimes money really can buy you love.