A.P.C Petit New Standard Rhapsody

Year and half of being basic

As I've alluded to in my introductory post, this blog is not going to break boundaries, challenge social norms or bring a wake change to the conventional blog. 

It seems only appropriate for my first post to feature the item ubiquitously found in every fashion wannabe's closet of insecurity: A.P.C. jeans.

Thanks mum for the repairs

I had scoured every Holt Renfrew and hipster store in Toronto looking for a size 30 in the Petit New Standard, but was always met with the response "is a 27 okay? I promise they will stretch." I don't know miss, does it look like I enjoy women pants (not a Hedi fan)?

After a patient 2 months I concluded maybe it'd better to wait and buy them in the states where there's more anorexic teens. 

Forward another week to my Las Vegas vacation and trip to Barneys. As I made my way through the clustered concourse of H&M wearing zeros; pathetically giggling to themselves at
the price tag of a pair of Charlotte Olympia Kitty Heels and politely telling sleazy salesmen—attempting to con me into a COMME des GARÇON PLAY t-shirt—to fuck off (I DON'T
WEAR DIFFUSION), I arrived at the denim section. As fast as I could, I located what looked like a competent sales associate and asked for a pair of Petit New Standards in a 30. I patiently waited as she checked in the back. Minuets passed as I attempted to contain my euphoria. Was I really this passe back then? Pathetic. 

Out she came with the jeans neatly folded. I jolted for the change room and shed my then cool Nudies. As I brought up the APCs past my knees, feeling the rigid denim claw at my skin I was met with the shock that the jeans refused to go any higher. Yanking and squirming, I did my best to make them fit. Were these months of wait in waste? Why didn't I try on a pair of 31 when I had the chance at Holts? Dammit, some bloke going through their midlife crisis probably snatched them already. Shit!

Slowly removed the jeans, feeling the abject disappointment flow through me, I took one last look at my defeat. There I saw the words "Petit Standard" written. I threw the jeans on the ground with all the might of my scrawny arms. I didn't enjoy Vegas. The pool parties were too loud, the food too greasy, waiters too pushy and there was always this pervasive musk in the air. But that moment was perhaps the greatest upset. How could she miss the word "New"? So much for no child left behind. 

Trying my best to mask the anger I asked her to locate a pair of PNS which she did. Some benighted degenerate has stolen the hang-tags but that was of no concern. My pilgrimage was over, the jeans were mine. 

Hope this post captures the full scope of my bitterness.