Being a seventeen-year-old girl in New York City during a global pandemic is already excruciatingly complicated, now add on the fact that no one wears blazers. With an estimated 8.4 million Americans living in the city alone, my French self longs for the Parisian streets where people actually put in the effort to take their dog out on a simple walk.

Amid the dozens of kids my age, my houndstooth blazer and jeans stand out. Yes, jeans, a simple item of clothing that yet New York City kids lack. In a room full of fifty people, I will be the only one wearing jeans. Yes, I am not exaggerating, it’s painful I know. 

People here consider jeans fancy, and they laugh at my blazers. Yet, they stand there in black leggings and a t-shirt, while their form of fancy is wearing a risque tank top and jeans. I relate to the jeans of course, minus the top, that is not French. My bilingual self has learned over the years that of course, there is quite a difference between American and French culture, not just when it comes to clothes, but the everyday simple things in life. 

I say that word at least once a day, “French culture” yet it’s true. When I’m in France a simple game of cards is enough fun, where we laugh and just sit in a circle and talk. Here, the parties are not even called parties, it’s more something that you’d see straight out of Dazed and Confused. I envy my friends from the homeland, wearing actual dresses and looking nice to go to a party. 

I spend my weekends going to dinners with a friend or two. And again, I am the only one wearing jeans.Yet, me and my jeans are inseparable, like a couple deeply in love. Even though my friends have gotten accustomed to my “European style” they still look me up and down every time we meet and comment on my outfit. 

Yet, they stand there wearing sweatpants. Can you imagine? Someone wearing sweatpants to dinner? The audacity. When I am older, I plan on moving to Paris if you couldn’t already tell halfway through the article that that was my intention.

I will be graciously welcomed by the other jeans-wearing blazer women in the streets, and there won’t be a single hoodie or sweatpant in sight. Granted Parisian women don’t just wear jeans and blazers, yet I will be accepted with open arms.