My War On Denim – Josh Journal
The more time we spend together, the likelier you’ll realize that I don’t wear denim. I don’t even own one.
Some people have assumed it is because I attend Deeper Life. Apparently, someone has preached that Denim is sinful.
What in the haberdashery does that even mean?
Others think it must be a fashion statement. I don’t consider myself fashionable enough to be making fashion statements at this point. Maybe in the future though.
So why don’t I wear denim?
Recently, I was in conversation with a couple of friends, and as many of such discourses tend to go, we started talking about the many things I don’t do. From meals to music, movies, dance, sports, drinks, and eventually clothes. Especially denim.
After extensive discussion, the consensus was that I needed therapy to change these habits. That sounded like fun. I might actually do that one day in the future. I think we might uncover somethings that will be interesting to write about. Maybe from me, maybe from the therapist.
After I concurred with their therapy recommendation, turns out no one was ready to bankroll it. Why were they bothered then?
Until I get around to either affording or being ready for therapy, or my friends come up with the funds, I have decided to tackle my many issues.
Beginning at my ongoing, over two decades feud with denim.
I analyzed myself to get to the root of this problem. And I am happy to share my findings with you.
It all began when my mother got me a denim top and trousers. That became my favorite cloth. If anyone asks me to go get dressed to go out, you can bank on the fact that I’m emerging from the room dressed in denim.
I wore this cloth to everywhere there is to go.
At this point, my mom was still responsible for doing my laundry. I think she was tired of washing the denim. Who can fault her? I wore that thing everywhere, and I was a very active child.
If there was a leader on the playground, it was most likely me.
To curb my enthusiasm for wearing this denim and saddling her with the unenviable task of washing it, she told me that I will be the one to wash it when next I wore it.
True enough, I wore it; true enough, she set up the stage for me to wash it.
Bowl, water, detergent, denim. The stage was set.
Imagine a less than ten-year-old boy who had never washed cloth in his life, having to scrub denim.
There is no need to tell you that was the first and last time I washed denim in my life. It was also the last time I wore that particular cloth.
Since then, I have been avoiding denim like things are personal between us.