Every girl has a pair of go-to jeans.
Guys, if you don’t know what pair your girlfriend’s go-to jeans are, you’d better find out. You are required to compliment your girlfriend when she wears these go-to jeans. Any other reaction can result in an episode of you saying, “What’d I do?” and her replying, “If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.” And no, she’s not going to tell you which pair they are–you’re supposed to know these things. That information was tattooed in your DNA the moment you were conceived…
Gals, you know what I mean by go-to jeans. These blue jeans are the perfect combination of proletariat look-how-down-to-earth-and-low-maintenance-I-am (while offering no guarantees) and bourgeois damn-I-look-good-better-than-you snobbery. You can wear whatever the hell you want with them. Sequins, t-shirts, motor oil, mustard–it don’t matter, you look fabulous. Your legs get slim, you look taller, and your butt achieves ideal proportions.
I, recently, acquired a pair of what I deemed were to be my go-to jeans.
They were originally somewhere in the neighborhood of $198 retail, which is RETARDEDLY expensive. I got them at the ridiculous close-out price of $25 American Dollars (plus 8.25 percent tax). Great jeans, designer label, super-cheap price–all these impossible factors came together and made me so happy I actually shrieked with joy like a Valley Girl (“Eeeee! Ohmigosh! Ohmigosh! There is a God!”).
But, as we all know, if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.
These great jeans were one size smaller than what I normally wear. For those of you who know me, I know that seems almost impossible… “Is there really a size smaller than Small Asian Girl?” Yes, my unbelieving flock, there is. It’s called Hollywood On Meth. Anyway, the Denim Gods saw fit to at least bless my jeans with 2 percent spandex, and that, combined with the Iron Will Of The Fashionable (a shout out to Sarah and her too-small Stuart Weitzman heels in Red Quasar patent leather here); I was going to fit these jeans.
Yes. The story of will triumphing over all would have ended there with a happy ending of me looking great in denim and being admired and desired. It would have ended that way… if it wasn’t for the APA (American Poolplayers Association, for you uninitiated freaks).
You see, I live out on the west side of Los Angeles, a land populated by rabid left-wingers and their hydroponically grown heads of lettuce and bricks of tofu. If you live out here, it’s hard to find good food. You’re pretty much relegated to insanely pricey salads, “heart-conscious choices”, “lite-size” menus, and people who are horrified you eat great big, bloody steaks. I’m always afraid the roving bands of zombie vegetarians will find me secretly eating a ribeye and crucify me on a cross of celery. I tend not to eat out very much on this side of town–lack of choices and lack of funds being the main reasons.
My lovely APA league is in the San Gabriel Valley (SGV). SGV, on the east side of Los Angeles, boasts great food (Mexican, Thai, Korean, Chinese, and IHOP, among other cuisines) at incredible prices. I can’t think of anywhere else that can offer you a lunch of Chinese roast duck on rice with soup and tea for $3.25! My God! I ran out to check that the comics weren’t a nickel and the movies weren’t a dime! (They weren’t. The bastards.) Adding fuel to the fire, eateries in SGV are routinely open late–midnight is a given, 3 or 4 in the morning usual, and 24-hour not uncommon. On the west side, eateries are done at about 8 p.m. I guess it’s unfashionable to open late out here. Or maybe just unfashionable to eat. Probably the latter.
So, San Gabriel Valley and all your eateries, I say, “DAMN YOU.”
It’s because of you (and, to a lesser extent, my friends that drive me around to these places) and your goddam eateries that I might never be able to fit into these jeans (even with their generous 2 percent spandex) and be worshipped by the masses.
These jeans are 6 months old now. They just sit on my chair by the door waiting for the day I’m going to take them to get hemmed (contrary to the belief of designers, not all girls have Barbie’s 48-inch legs). Sometimes, I look at them and get sad. So much cuteness, wasted, for roast duck and rice (yes, this is a motif) and duck stew noodles (I like duck, obviously).
Sometimes, I get motivated looking at them. I think, “I can do it! I’ll do the 5 miles a day! I’ll refrain from eating in that mystical, cursed land I call San Gabriel Valley! I’ll be a goddam vegetarian! I’m a goddam champion, and I’m going to FIT IN THESE GODDAM JEANS!“
Of course, as we all know in pool, being a goddam champion means playing smart–playing percentages.
So, upon further reflection, I’m going to take this ball-in-hand opportunity and play a ball-freezing, corner-hooking safety.
These damned jeans are going on eBay to make sure I have money to drop on the tables at Vegas. The buffet tables, that is.
Of course, I know the money won’t last that long. San Gabriel will bleed it out of me soon. This weekend, most likely.
So long, go-to jeans, the dream we shared was a nice vision, but that’s all it was–a dream.
Goddam you, San Gabriel Valley. Goddam you (and your Tomy’s burgers) to hell.