<http://schema.org/articleBody>
"  It was my spring semester of ninth grade, and Levi&amp;#039;s cutoffs might as well have been my school uniform. I had been a student at the United Nations International School for two years, but now, for the first time, I was commuting alone from my home in Queens to the Manhattan campus. Like my subway pass, my Benetton-ad-worthy crew of friends, and the boy who was suddenly starring in most of my daydreams, my modified jeans shorts were an essential part of my burgeoning, cool-girl identity\u2014distressed, cutoff 501s that seemed to fit in every way at a time when I, too, often felt distressed and cut off, at least from my parents, who cringed at the rags I insisted on wearing to the fancy school they were paying for. But these were not just any rags. Mine were covered in custom graffiti. I loved graphic art, and I had drawn on them, in angsty block capitals, my own name and various Important Things\u2014names of new-wave and hip-hop groups, song titles, iconic actors and movies, peace symbols in thick, permanent black marker. The boy&amp;#039;s initials were written there too, where only I could find them. The funny thing is that in eighth grade I couldn&amp;#039;t stand him. We&amp;#039;d even traded verbal jabs in class, insulting each other&amp;#039;s intelligence, personality, heritage (which was rich, as we were both from racially mixed families). But now, when he and I lobbed wisecracks at each other, it felt more flirtatious than fierce; he completely undid me every time he glanced my way, which I sensed was more frequent and due to the cutoffs. I always wore mine over black leggings\u2014everybody did in fall and winter. But the weather had turned warm, so I was planning to finally show off my prize shorts with no leggings. I had waited for a special occasion, too: a school dance\u2014our school didn&amp;#039;t have formals. I wouldn&amp;#039;t have traded my cutoffs for a frilly gown and corsage anyway. The boy had asked whether I was going, which was probably, somewhat, maybe akin to asking me to go with him. I couldn&amp;#039;t wait. The night finally arrived. I clung nervously to my friends. Where was the boy? I hadn&amp;#039;t seen him all evening. And then he was standing in front of me on the dance floor. The entire school cafeteria blurred into an abstract sensory soup of color and throbbing music. The boy was all I could see or hear. He leaned into me and said something about a surprise outside. I could hardly focus. Then he hooked his glorious thumb through the belt loop above my hip pocket and we walked toward the door. He asked, &amp;quot;Did you do all the graffiti on these yourself?&amp;quot; I nodded. &amp;quot;Cool. I want you to show my girlfriend. She doesn&amp;#039;t want to come in\u2014she hates dances. But she wants to meet you.&amp;quot; Then, looking back as he started to trot ahead: &amp;quot;Wow, I never knew you had such jiggly legs.&amp;quot; Just like that, it was over. For the entire five minutes I spent smiling and chatting with the pretty girlfriend he knew from camp, all I could think about were my thighs, the puberty-onset jiggle I&amp;#039;d never noticed before, and how much I hated cutoffs of all kinds, especially the ones setting off the pretty girlfriend&amp;#039;s cross-country-runner&amp;#039;s legs in the romantic moonlight. I gave both my dreaded pairs to Goodwill, which thrilled my parents, and I didn&amp;#039;t wear shorts of any kind, never mind cutoffs, for ages. But when they came back in style recently, I bought a pair. I&amp;#039;ve been thinking about wearing them out dancing, and maybe writing my husband&amp;#039;s initials inside, where only I can find them.  Do you have a fashion story to tell?Enter our  Love, Loss, and What I Wore Contest  for your chance to win a trip to NYC and a $1,000 Ann Taylor wardrobe! "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.elle.com/fashion/a10474/love-loss-what-i-wore-sarah-jones-357886/?src=global_footer>