My Sweet Ass Became Hazardous to My Health
You Won't Believe What the Perfect Pair of "Butt Jeans" Did to Me
Picture it: Seattle, Washington, 20 years ago. We were there visiting relatives around this time of year. I stopped at an Armani Exchange store. I was looking for a new pair of jeans.
I was making good money at the time. It was around Thanksgiving, and I was set to eclipse over $100,000 in earnings for the first time in my real estate career. The first time in my life, actually. Fuck yeah.
We grew up poor. Not like, “A house full of skinny kids,” poor. Not like, “We didn’t have shoes to wear to school,” poor. Not even like, “Steve Martin in The Jerk, as Navin Johnson, living in a shanty, playing the spoons with eight to ten other family members clapping and singing in the Deep South,” poor. But POOR.
I remember receiving used underwear from Goodwill at least a couple of times. I think my mother hoped I wouldn’t notice, but I was an observant poor kid if I was anything. When they don’t come in the plastic packaging and are already inserted randomly in your underwear drawer, certain questions must be asked. *Shudder
She also tried to sneak powdered milk in on us once. ONCE. My dad noticed this one and put the kibosh on that shit happening ever again. She did what she could with the budget she had for a family of four. I don’t blame her for the sneaky stuff.
Oh, and then there was the government cheese. This came in a rectangular skinny box, perfect for keeping baseball cards in. Until the kids at school called me and my other financially challenged friend out for having free cheese baseball card storage. Sorry, Nolan Ryan, your ‘86 Topps card probably smelled a little bit funky.
I switched to shoe boxes after this, but that didn’t remedy the situation entirely. While our friends were sporting Nike, Reebok, and Adidas shoes and used those boxes for their cards, my fellow hobo friends and I used Pro-Wings, Zips, and Trax shoeboxes.
Trax. For those of you who had money growing up and got to eat at Red Lobster every Friday, that’s the K-Mart house brand of shoes. They were as cheap as Lauren Boebert and as ugly as Marjorie Traitor Greene. Gross as hell.
We’d shuffle into Skipper’s wearing our Trax on Tuesday Discount Shrimp Night and imagine a world where we could dunk a basketball wearing our Nike Airs or Reebok Pumps. I’d think ahead to what surely were destined to be better financial years, someday.
Ok, it wasn’t that bad. I finally received my first pair of name-brand shoes (Reeboks) at the end of summer, discounted, of course, at JCPenney from the usual $49.99 down to $19.99. Even that was a stretch.
Imagine 14-year-old me, my pleading eyes, my parents looking at each other like, “I dunno, one of us might have to sell a kidney for this damn kid to have Reeboks”. I emphatically reassured them that I’d wear them until my funeral. I’d be buried looking like Ronald McDonald.
Ronald McDonald? Oh, I forgot to mention the best part of this shrewd footwear purchase: They were all-red high tops. Not white, with red accents. RED, with white accents. Check out this picture of these “classics”.
In retrospect, I should have thought this through for more than 10 seconds. But they were REEBOK. They were my exact size, with just enough room if my feet grew a little. They had the Union Jack flag. I instantly felt more British and refined as soon as I tried them on. I asked the sales lady for a spot of tea. She looked at me snobby and called me a wanker. Finally, I was about to own a name-brand pair of shoes.
BUT THEY WERE RED. This was in 1988, before shoes came in fashion colors like they do these days. What would I have even matched these up with? My Kool-Aid Man T-shirt? A fucking Santa costume? I wasn’t popular enough to be different. That was about to become abundantly clear in the worst way.
The first day of school came, and it was time to show off my new kicks. We used to peg our pants back in the day. Rolled up our jeans and folded them over, so people could see our awesome basketball shoes. You were a nerd if you didn’t show off your high-tops.
I suddenly understood what Will Smith was rapping about in “Parents Just Don’t Understand”. You know, where his mom buys him the worst school clothes ever, and he gets teased relentlessly? That bullshit became my new reality.
I only had myself to blame for this. My parents didn’t want to buy them for me. A nice pair of blue-light-special Trax in black or white would have been less damaging to my already suspect 9th-grade rep. These shoes guaranteed that my virginity would be safe at least until college. Ok, I can’t entirely blame the shoes for that one.
So this led to shopping issues as a young adult. I didn’t like spending money on what I deemed to be extravagant purchases. Yet, I didn’t want to dress like a fuckwit, either. Such a conundrum.
I found my wheelhouse of affordable, somewhat fashionable male style in my mid to late 20s. This brings us back to the Great Seattle Armani Exchange Purchase of 2004. Holy shit, here we go…
I tried the jeans on. They were incredible. A lighter wash, a bit of wear on one of the knees, in a fashionable way. Ever so slightly flared legs at the bottom. My butt looked so good, I almost left my wife, in the middle of the store.
“Excuse me, Miss? Does this store have a freight door in the back room that I can sneak out of? I’m late for a runway session. Of course, AFTER I pay.”
But I didn’t want to spend the money they cost. They were double the price of the most expensive pair of jeans I’d ever purchased. $125 dollarinis. My soon-to-be ex-wife told me that I should just buy them and that they looked good. She told me that I worked hard and deserved to get myself something nice for once.
I understood all of that. But the poor kid in me from about 15 years prior wasn’t feeling good about it. I made him stifle it. I told him there was a bread line around the corner from the mall and that he should go get in it. I was talking myself into this purchase.
Italians love Italian things. We can be a prideful people. ARMANI jeans. It had a nice ring to it. The same type of suits Pat Riley used to wear while coaching Lakers games in the 80s. This memory was not lost on me. Maybe I’d go test drive a Ferrari after we left AE. I felt a premature mid-life crisis starting to develop.
I walked out wearing these awesome jeans. I indeed felt like a new man. They did look good. I walked right into a lady while looking at myself in the mall mirror. Knocked her flat on the ground, like an unobservant yet fashionable dick.
She looked angry until she was at eye level with the new purchase, blushed, and apologized for her clumsiness. I let her kiss my hand and shooed her off to continue shopping with the rest of the peasants. My ego was growing by the minute.
I felt so Italian wearing Armani Exchange jeans, I wanted to box somebody for 15 rounds and yell “ADRIAN!” at the very end. Boxing matches only were scheduled for 12 rounds, though at this point. No matter. We could go three extra ones in the parking lot after the fight, bare knuckles. LET’S GOOOOOOO!
Upon our return home and wearing the jeans to the office, to dinner, to church, to the gym, and even in bed, I wondered if I should look into a second pair. I was going to wear these out if I didn’t give them a rest. Perhaps I should look into cleaning options first.
I tried to decide whether I should get them dry-cleaned while still wearing them, or contorting myself enough to fit in the washing machine with them on. Perhaps I’d just run through a car wash without my Chrysler Sebring. (I passed on the Ferrari). I came to my senses and simply ordered a second pair online. Laundry problem solved.
I went with a slightly darker blue wash and giggled at the joy I was certain to find. Lightning COULD strike twice. I told my first lighter pair that he was about to become a big brother, but told him he’d still always be my baby. He wasn’t so reassured, but I took him out for ice cream and all was forgiven.
The big day arrived. The tracking on the package said delivery was to be on a Tuesday. I paid extra on shipping for a larger, stronger, faster stork. The bundle of joy was delivered, and I ran to my bedroom where the full-length mirror was, so I could properly worship my gorgeous self.
I slowly unwrapped the packaging and cradled Armani the Second. He still had that new baby smell. I felt 10 years younger, as I inhaled from the fountain of youth, like the goddamn creep I was becoming.
I tried them on and quickly turned toward the mirror in our room. Suddenly, I was pained. No, they fit wonderfully. They made my butt look like an oil painting. The color was perfect, just as I had seen in the ad. But I felt pained. Actual, horrible pain.
Specifically, in my neck. In that instant, I had turned toward the mirror to check out my booty. I had just sprained my neck checking out my own ass! Oh, snap.
Man, did it hurt. One of those jobbies where you know you won’t be driving your car for a few days. Or if you do, you’ll only be able to make left turns. Ouch. I really did it good this time.
Then I laughed. I had just pulled a neck muscle checking out my butt. In a full-length mirror. Because of the new Armani jeans. The poor-kid curse was in full effect. I knew this had been a bad idea, even back in Seattle.
I hurt for almost a week. I was unable to drive for three or four days. I couldn’t believe I had sprained my damn neck. My vanity had caused me to injure myself, from checking out my own denim-clad ass.
You know what, though? It was worth it.
From one former Reebok red high tops owner to another, you made me laugh so hard I cried. Thank you for this walk down memory lane. 🤣
OMG! That made me laugh. I thought I was the only one who thought Red Lobster was the pinnacle of fine dining when I was a kid. We went maybe once or twice a year. Or those “special” nights that our parents let us buy those cheap-ass “TV dinners” - the ones in the foil trays you put in the oven. We would get to pick the one with the “best” desserts. 🤣🤣