The daunting, life-altering questions before me this past weekend:

Would Denim Bar live up to its ever-growing reputation as the place to go for high-end jeans? Would the jeans stocked there be able to lift not just my derriere but also my distaste for the idea of designer denim itself? And most importantly, would I find a pair that actually fit?

The answer to all these questions turned out to be… yes. Yes. Oh Yes!

Ever since my department store denim wrangle I’d been planning a trip to Denim Bar, looking for a date with designer jeans that might possibly turn out to be that One Perfect Pair for a voluptuous yet long-torso’d girl like me. So last Saturday I visited the blue temple located at Pentagon Row, armed with a friend whose honesty is legendary.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
It’s a bit overwhelming upon entering. The place is seriously popular and with only three dressing rooms it can get chaotic, not to mention the rows upon stacks upon piles of denim that confront you. There are no guiding signs to if you’re new to the world of exclusive brands. This can be initially daunting and strike fear into your denim-challenged heart. But never fear. The staff at Denim Bar is exceptional. We waited our turns eagerly, nervously, with a healthy dose of skepticism. Then came the delightful Kristina, who listened patiently to my rant about my difficult body type and my crazy desire for a pair of jeans that could take me from day to night with ease. She raced around pulling pairs that might fit the bill and sent me to the dressing room with about six or seven possibilities, reassuring me that through trial and error we would succeed.

In the dressing room, doing the denim dance all women know (Pull… Hop! Tug… Jump!), my old insecurities about jeans flooded me. It just wasn’t going to work. But when Kristina came back to check on me you could practically see the lightbulb over her head. “Wait, I think I’ve got it,” she said, and within minutes a pair was placed in my hands that glowed with the divine light of the Holy Grail of Denim. I just knew it. (Pull… Hop! Tug… Jump!). Wow. Was it possible? Serious curves defined, distressed in all the right places but not overtly, and button-fly (just how sexy IS button-fly? damn!). They passed my honest friend’s critical eye with ease, and then with a casual compliment from owner Mauro Farinelli, I was hooked. Some twenty years of hatred for the blue twill fabric disappeared as Kristina marked a new hem and I found myself shelling out the bucks for the perfect fit.

Sigh. I am truly reformed. If only I didn’t have to wait until this Saturday to pick them up…

(Oh, and the brand? Seven, as predicted here by Stacey. Thanks!)

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs