the high stakes of low rise, pt. 1

low rise jeans for fat people are not the win you think they are.

Back in May, I tweeted the following statement, directed at no one in particular: 

“Do not talk to me about the Y2K revival unless you’re willing to admit you’re nostalgic for a time when fat people were not allowed to have clothes. Sure it seems like fun and games now, but the reality is that Y2K fashion was all about scanning a deLiA*s catalog and then feeling like shit for approximately 10-15 years.”

I chuckled to myself when I wrote that tweet, like I do when I write most of my tweets, a combination of thinking I’m hilarious (if I don’t who will) and it being after 10 p.m. when, cognitively, I transform into a 17-year-old boy grunting one-word affirmations to himself as he enters his seventh hour of gaming. I was also proud of myself for remembering the deLiA*s preferred editorial style, which actually gets more unhinged the more you stare at it. 

I used the phrase “Y2K revival,” but what I really meant, I think, was low rise jeans. Dusting off the other relics of early aughts fashion doesn’t bother me in the slightest — crop tops, body glitter, butterfly clips, G-strings showing above your waistline, jelly shoes — I’m here for all of it. When it comes to the return of low rise jeans, though, something about it felt insurmountably shitty — in other words, I didn’t want the trend anywhere near me, even if I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.

Interestingly, in the months following that tweet, I’ve noticed an increase in the amount of pro-low rise jeans content from plus-size writers, creators, and media outlets. At face value, the argument seems to be “fat people should be allowed to wear whatever they want, low rise jeans included.” For anyone who is here by accident and has no idea who I am or what I’m about, let it be known that I strongly agree with that (and actually, if you don’t, this might not be the newsletter for you).

Let me just repeat myself for the people in the back: I think anyone, of any size, should be allowed to wear whatever they want, which is part of the reason why I’m writing this in a little unitard covered in dog fur. At any size, a little unitard covered in dog fur is valid. 

Anyways back to low rise, and first, some context. In early August, Teen Vogue published an op-ed using my tweet as one of the jumping off points for their counter argument. The piece was called “The Y2K Style Trend Isn’t Fatphobic, Our Attitudes About It Are.” The writer argues that “acknowledging that the origins of a fashion trend are inherently and historically fatphobic should not necessarily translate to never participating in them,” and that participating in them is a “small act of reclamation.” 

The op-ed was published with a handful of original photos — plus-size models in Y2K-inspired looks, certainly a strong subversion of the imagery I used to ingest as a fat teenager dissociating with the arrival of every deLiA*s catalog. I noted that, despite the argument that it’s time for fat bodies to reclaim Y2K fashion, the controversial beacon of the 2000s wardrobe is missing from those photos: There are no low rise jeans to speak of. One model (on the smaller size of the group) is wearing wide-leg cargo pants belted just under her belly button. Another is wearing a pair of patchwork jeans from plus-size brand Eloquii — the jeans are sold out, but the product images and description clearly categorize them as high rise jeans. I imagine the stylist simply pulled them down towards the model’s hips for the shot, which is a completely normal and fine thing for a stylist to do, but not exactly the visual required to back up the argument that it’s time to “reclaim” trends once unavailable to fat people.

Then, a week or so ago, I saw another plus-size low rise jeans experiment-based op-ed at Bustle, entitled “What It’s Like to Wear Low Rise Jeans as a Size 20 Woman.” The writer describes having a difficult time finding plus-size low-rise jeans for her experiment — ASOS, for example, only had one pair of low rise jeans in plus out of 94 pairs in the category. Out of curiosity, I searched for how many pairs of low rise jeans are available in straight sizes (typically 00-12, for those who are unfamiliar with the term). There are 134.The Bustle writer acknowledges the Teen Vogue article, stating “The Y2K trend itself might not be inherently fatphobic, but the market sure is.”

Both of these pieces of content came from plus-size people’s perspectives, published in mainstream outlets. Considering a mere decade ago there was A) Barely any plus-size content online and B) Even fewer outlets reporting on plus-size fashion and C) Fewer still plus-size writers paid to make those points, my issue isn’t with the existence of the content itself. For me, it’s more about what these stories were inadvertently clarifying: Beyond the notion that fat people should do and wear whatever they want (yes! always!), there are still glaring limits to fat people participating in the trend, first and foremost being that the options to participate don’t really exist. 

And then there’s the fact that, unfortunately and independent of some evolving attitudes, the trend is fatphobic. In fact, it was quite literally designed to be. Low rise jeans, in their truest form, were originally designed for one type of body, during a time when one type of body was the only acceptable type. It’s why a pair of pants that sits over my hips and under my belly button aren’t exactly low rise — the Y2K low rise sits around the very top of the hip bones or lower, often just concealing a teeny tiny mons paris hilton pubis. I like to think of it as a design meant for things that stay in straight, uniform lines with very little deviation, whereas larger bodies are an infinite combination of lines, spheres, twists and turns. Low rise jeans simply don’t accommodate differences in that way, and that makes it unique to any other garment I can think of — even a string bikini can be designed to accommodate a size 28, fit well, and stay on that person’s body. To say that the trend itself isn’t fatphobic is a fine way to set up an argument for why fat people should participate in that trend, but ultimately, it’s just not true. 

But actually, it’s more than that. I’ve realized my feelings on the lack of options, fit, the mental gymnastics fat people have to do to justify participation, or the fact that I, personally, don’t want the waistband of a pair of size 22 jeans touching my vagina are actually not what’s so insidious to me about the resurgence of this trend. I’ve also realized why the celebratory “we deserve this” push for fat people to get behind it feels so uniquely shitty in a way that the thought of getting dressed in something trendy hasn’t felt in years.

More on that next time. Welcome to fat hell.