You, step forth.
What is this… jean… you wear about your waist, child?
A “’90s Crop”? Is that really what they call it now? You dare speak of the Wide-Leg jean? You think I do not know their secrets, their deep magicks, their bountiful pockets? You dare, even, to don them in my presence?
Ha! The youth mocks me with my own image. It was I whose jeans once billowed freely in the summer winds! The ancient labels: Pepe Jeans, True Religion, JNCO—I wore them all. You will never know their rivets as I have known them. You will never bear their weight as I have, heavy with mud and PBR. My denim was vintage, its holes earned through wear, not carved by the machines of many falsehoods!
Yes, it was I who did battle with the sorcerer Ed Hardy. And then we made love… the wallet chains of all the earth were surely rattled that day.
This was before I sold them. I sold my own Wide-Leg jeans for black skinnies that would achieve clout on MySpace…
So, you pair this jean with a teeny tiny crop top? Fool! I laugh at your naiveté. Soon, the top will form tan lines upon your shoulders, the waist of these jeans shall chafe against your midriff like the armies of Bugle Boy.
Speak NOT of what you do not know, witch who is called Aiden! You dare reference the old names so plainly, so openly? Kate? Naomi? Britney? JUSTIN? I know the arcane texts like the back pocket of a 501. Denim was once an entire themed issue of the Vogue magazine I kept beneath my pillow for not one, but two blue moons!
Excuse me, “WHAT IS A MAGAZINE?” Oh, spite! Oh, wickedness!
I curse your false, suddenly trendy again Wide-Leg jeans. I curse them in the name of the miners, the factory workers, the cattle drivers. I curse them in the name of Levi Strauss & Co. Tremble before my power, Aiden: I even curse them in the name of the car mechanic’s buttcrack!
May the loops of your jeans always catch on a cabinet drawer and cause a great ruckus.
May your indigos fade in an unflattering way. Their original vibrance shall be but a fleeting memory of a bygone age of glory as you are buried in “50% Off” emails.
May you never again go to a thrift store and find your size. May you find only spandex stretch jeans designed for a newborn baby.
May your denim fray only at the crotch! No one can make that work.
You shall be cursed for all time. Your children will turn your jeans into jorts that are “upcycled!” Your name will NEVER be rhinestoned on Juicy Couture.
What jeans am I wearing? Insolent youth. These skinny jeans are all I have left. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t put my phone in a pocket for ten years. I no longer feel pain beneath my pelvic floor. I am doing fine.