“From the ages of 12 to 18, in peak early 2000s, I used to be not often allowed to put on denims. Going to a non-public, all-girls Catholic college meant there have been fairly a number of stipulations on what you might and couldn’t do, and sporting denims was a “couldn’t” until it was a Friday (and also you paid $4 to “charity”), a group service day, or, most significantly, an off-campus mixer with boys. In true pubescent, trying-to-fit-in style, I begged my mother for as many tight, low-rise denims — the trending denim silhouette on the time — as I may slot in my dresser. However on the similar time, if I wasn’t in class or sporting the tightest hip-hugging, butt-plumping denim I may get my palms on, I used to be a consolation queen who lived in my dishevelled sweatpants — one thing that might tremendously affect my private model later in life.”
