If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you are wearing clothes. Or my byline photo made you spontaneously strip down to nothing but a pair of crusty underwear and a smile. I don’t judge, and I also don’t blame you. That photo is from a decade ago.

Assuming you’re in clothes, then you had to decide what to wear. It’s an arduous task for most of us – the rummaging in a closet, color coordinating, the classic “smell” test to confirm you can go another week without doing your laundry. For me, dressing is a joy. I have multiple closets stocked with clothes – suits, mostly. I have some shorts, some sweats, hoodies and T-shirts, but those are for special occasions only. Like a kid’s birthday or a hangover.

You know what you won’t find in my closet?

Jeans.

I hate jeans. Not even a poorly conceived Sydney Sweeney commercial could convince me I needed to buy jeans. If I had to choose between wearing denim and one of those barrels cartoon hobos wear, I’d choose the barrel. Far more dignified. Jeans were created for gold miners so they didn’t rip their pants while sloshing in a river full of jagged rocks. I panned for gold once, on a school field trip to Sutter’s Fort in fifth grade. I was not asked to go pro.

Jeans make some people look like Bruce Springsteen – macho, blue collar and soulful. Jeans make me look like my........

© The Guardian