When I die, bury me in bell bottoms.
Bury me in these ones.
It might be that this vintage silhouette makes me feel more connected to my bff/mom when she was my age, or that their flare and good ‘ol high rise simply do nice things to even out my short legs and long-ass torso. Or perhaps, as I’ve always suspected, I was just born in the wrong era. Instead of bumbling around in the 2000’s with the weird floaty flip flops, body glitter, and baby tees emblazoned with “Angel” in sparkly cursive, I should have been coming of age in the 70’s. I would have been super in vogue with my stick-straight hair, and I’d hang out in my boyfriend’s basement with my best friends, Ashton Kutcher and Danny Masterson.
(Also, who am I kidding? The early 2000’s were awesome. How can you hate when we saw the emersion of such quality musical acts like Baby Bash and, I don’t know…Ryan Cabrera?)
Whatever the reason, I can’t stop wearing these jeans, and I’ve developed the lofty aspiration to buy all of the bells. ALL OF THEM.
Since I can’t shut up about these sweet denim babies, allow me to pontificate just a bit longer.
These are the Gypsy Minor bells from PYLO, and they’re made specifically with my petite sistas in mind. Shorter inseams, smaller sizes – bridging some of the gap that exists with a lot of retailers for the vertically challenged. We aren’t all amazon women, after all.
I know I’m not alone in wanting to feel connected to the younger versions of the souls who raised us, though. Growing up, the music and books of my mother’s youth became the music and books of mine. The moody, teenaged me would lay on my bed for hours, doing nothing but listening to Queen or Van Morrison, reading lyrical dramas called The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds (which is fantastic, by the way), feeling out of place and waxing nostalgic for a day before AIM. So when my mama started asking me if I wanted things of her’s, like this perfect red wool turtleneck, I clearly did not hesitate to snatch those little vintage gems right out of her hands.
And then I never stopped wearing them.
Writing To – Seasons – Badbadnotgood