I had a date with Destiny the other night.
Not destiny in the serendipitous sense but rather an actual person named Destiny and no, she does not have a child thank you very much.
(This was also just a friend-date in case you’re wondering which way the door swings for me.)
So on my way to meet Des, I passed a store window to check out my reflection. I’d just had a blowout so my hair was on par, eyebrows were looking cleaned up for once, I had a sharp-ass shirt on, a freshly laundered pair of jeans — a “designer” pair, if you will — and in scanning my person from head to toe I was just about to hit on my own self when something stopped me faster than a blind bird to a glass window.
The knees of my jeans looked as if they had once been grapes and then became raisins. They were sadder than a deflated Mylar balloon two-weeks after a retirement party, more depressed than a popped lip-injection leaking collagen and worst of all — they hadn’t been like this when I left my house. The stupidly expensive denim had just gone completely rogue and bagged without warning. You see the image above? Those wrinkly knees are practically condom-fit compared to what was happening on my pants. They were Sag Harbor city, baby, and I don’t mean the pleasant Hamptons village.
What could I do? There’s no solution once the fabric of your pants decides to forgo sisterhood. I slumped like George-Michael Bluth doing the Charlie Brown as I walked to meet Destiny, defeated against my own pantalones’ determination to ruin my outfit.
“This is why I never wear jeans,” Destiny told me. “The knees will always let you down.”
What a distressing thought. Aren’t jeans supposed to be the backbone of America? The every-man pant intended to carry us through our sartorial ups and downs, our wardrobe staple, the thing we reach for when we can’t decide what to wear because we know that you can’t go wrong with denim? Where would James Dean or Brooke Shields be without theirs? Did they just not care about baggy knees? Am I the only one? I can’t be, but how is it possible that we’ve been subsisting on denim that wrinkle and drop at the leg joint like the skin of an adorable English bulldog puppy?!
I am not insane. I totally get that maybe some room is needed in order for the legs to bend or whatever, but I do not need an entire orchestra pit to take a friggen’ step. I do not need the Grand Canyon in my pants in order for me to run up subway stairs, or a Bat Mitzvah venue to squat down each time I drop my Metro Card. My pants are not a quote from the movie Step Brothers; I do not need more “room for activities” inside my god damn pants.
Someone. Anyone. If you have a solution, a brand, a wizard: I’m all ears. And until then, I’m also pantsless.
– Amelia Diamond