Denim-blooded
Priya Gohil
Wouldn’t the world be a better place if there was a jeans fairy?
A fairy that could find the perfect size of jeans for me,
the perfect shade,
the perfect price,
for a perfect person.
A fairy that could glide through the undying lines, not with a Dash Pass, rather a Lash Pass, at the local mall on a bustling Saturday evening, a fairy that could try jeans on for me in the anxiety-inducing fitting rooms (well, maybe not because I love hearing moms and their daughters gossiping about a brown girl next to them all because she’s got thirty hangers on the floor and likes options).
In return, to ease tensions, I’d give them the double finger, with my toes.
A fairy that could tailor the jeans to the rims of my rear and to the rims of my hips without error, like a manmade, emotionless, tech-blooded robot.
Some are friends–boyfriend, bootcut, straight, high rise, politely ripped
Levi’s & Lucky Brand & J. Crew
Madewell & Macy’s
Nordstrom
Who decided skinny jeans weren’t cool anymore?
Pathetic, to say the least.
Trends are like the end slice of the loaf of bread–lonely, ugly, unwanted, simply to be ignored, ripped apart like cannibals clawing through a pudgy layer of lively, soon to be lifeless salmon skin, and to be vilely discarded into the trash can located underneath in a place I like to call Hell.
What ever happened to authenticity, to individuality, to coolness?
Some are foes–wide-legged, low-rise, loose, baggy, mauled-by-a-grizzly-bear ripped.
My giddy eyes elevate, my arched heels reciprocate. Like the kid on the tetanus-plagued seesaw ride at Winona Q Park, finally, I elevate.
My hands secure a mature pair of navy, sand washed jeans on the second closet shelf, the one I wore the last day of high school, the one I wore when I found out I got into Rutgers (when I was napping on my mattress that sucked me in like a black hole but lovingly, as I awoke to my aunt’s eyes before my nose, a Rutgers alum, screeching with delight, but quickly I returned to my dream that I‘d been engaged to sexy Chris Evans on the shoulder of Garden State Parkway… romance finds its ways), the one I almost wore when I hadn’t been expecting my period, and that’s what got me to believe that God was indeed… real.
My jeans fasten to a T, the denim hugs my love handles, my thighs, and my lotion-deficient ankles, slashed too many times by my childhood abuser—the Razor Scooter.
A few seconds later, I cut myself with a scissor by accident, attempting to D.I.Y jean shorts.
Out of the thread-like wound gushed unfamiliar yet familiar liquid, warm, sizzling, like heart attack-crispier-than-toenails bacon on a pan of piping hot oil, in the shade down the shore ocean water, Avon-By-The-Sea of course.
Some would say I’m red-blooded, but I’d say I’m denim-blooded.
Priya Gohil, class of 2026, is pursuing a Marketing degree with minors in Psychology and Creative Writing. Born and raised in Wayne, New Jersey, her passion for creative writing ignited in her hometown, in Dr. White’s AP Language and Composition class. From the walls of high school to the halls of Rutgers Writers House, she brings her love for writing wherever she goes. In her leisure time, she enjoys cooking, Indian classical dancing, and a generous tub of chocolate ice cream.