For a few years in my early twenties, I was a Jean Expert™. I worked at American Eagle in my hometown mall and was an enthusiastic participant in the store’s mandatory denim training. Around the fall of 2008, the chain embraced the resurrection of skinny jeans, and as a wee baby hipster determined to differentiate herself from anyone still savoring super low-rise bootcut, I saw them as liberation from “the mainstream.” Never mind that they were available everywhere. To me, skinny jeans equated freedom. Which was ironic, because they felt anything but. Until I met Mom Jeans.

The first time I saw super-high-rise jeans—specifically, my best friend’s pair of Cheap Mondays—I was as shocked as I was intrigued. I immediately bought a pair. Unlike their low-rise counterparts, they highlighted the parts of myself I’d come to believe should be strategically covered in billowy tank tops or several polos worn simultaneously, lest my body look imperfect. I’d wear them with plain crew neck t-shirts and scarves or big, baggy sweaters. I wanted to show off how interesting and different I was, both in my penchant for vintage but also in my rejection of the trends of the moment. These jeans let me do that.

Sure, millions of other people were wearing their denim high (and had never actually stopped). But these jeans made me feel special. I was a Denim Expert who rejected regular-old skinnies in favor of Mom Jeans, and that made me unique.

I know now, of course that I absolutely wasn’t. And about a decade after their introduction to the mainstream, Mom Jeans have nestled their way into our hearts and closets, evolving from a derogatory nickname reserved to a bona fide trend. (My old employer even has a whole section dedicated to them.) They now have straighter, roomier legs—thank heavens—that seem concerned with comfort over everything else Which suits me just fine: As a now 34-year-old woman who wants nothing more than to pour herself into a denim sack every morning out of sheer laziness, the embrace of Mom Jeans has helped cultivate the illusion of having style, despite really just wanting to dress like Sabrina Spellman circa 1996.

The thing is, as much as I loved the idea of a high-rise skinny, I was never (and still am not) totally comfortable wearing it. To wiggle into jeans that are super-tight, that require maneuvering, that midday can make you want to abandon them completely for jogging pants or paper bag isn’t exactly a dream. Yes, it felt cool not to worry about showing your underwear off if you so much bent down to tie your shoe, as would happen with a super low-rise, but it’s even cooler to feel like you’re cheating—like your high rise and billowy legs symbolize a dedication to fashion over your allegiance to absolute comfort. And to be honest, I’ve never felt better.

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