I have a long and troubled history with blue jeans. Sometimes finding the right pair is worse than finding a husband. Joyce loves jeans, but was recently watching Dr. Oz and now realizes that her jeans don’t fit because of her omentum. She told me that and then laughed like hell.
Gigi, too, has had recent trouble with jeans. It seems she was experiencing a bit o’ chest pain and made an appointment to see her doc. Gigi grew up on a farm and she is ‘strong like bull.’
Trust me on this. She makes me and Joyce look like weak tits. So Gigi reluctantly visited the doc and he said that her EKG looked okay. He was, however, concerned about her symptoms and warned if they got any worse she should visit the ER. Boy. That’ll scare you even when you’re ‘strong like bull.’
The next day Gigi donned a new pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and headed off to work. Then she began having trouble swallowing. She’d lost her appetite and her fingers were turning blue. Her escalating symptoms made ‘strong like bull’ get scared and head for the nearest ER. The hospital people were concerned as well—-chest pain, no appetite, throat issues, blue fingers—-and decided to keep her overnight.
The docs called for a stress test first thing in the morning and soon enough the results came back. Normal. What the hell? The doc began to troubleshoot and rubbed some alcohol on Gigi’s finger. Well, what do you know? The alcohol took the blue right off. Apparently Gigi’s blue fingers came from the dye in her new jeans and not from a cardio problem.
I had my own set of jean problems a few years ago when I was a brand new teacher chaperoning a high school dance. I’d invited Mags as my date. He’d broken my heart a few years prior, but we’d stayed in touch. I thought I’d show him and wear some really sexy stonewashed jeans. I was lookin’ good.
I instructed the DJ that a recent school policy banned him from playing Billy Idol’s Mony Mony because it got the kids all revved up. Every time Idol sang the refrain to his song the kids would scream, “Get laid, get *&#%&*.” This was not good. Plus, they’d dance on the half walls surrounding the cafeteria while screaming, “Get laid, get *&#%&*.” It was a recipe for pure teenage craziness. The school had policies against such things.
Do you suppose the DJ listened to me or the school policy? Noooooo. I think he played the song three times that night. Every time he spun that record the kids jumped on the half walls and danced wildly while screaming about getting laid. My job was to reach over the half walls and swat the kids down. Mags was no help at all. During the first playing of Mony Mony I bent over to swat at a few kids and the entire ass of my stonewashed jeans ripped wide open. The second time I swatted at the kids the jeans ripped even further. Those jeans were in shreds by the end of the night and my panties were all that covered my bare arse. Mags wondered why I couldn’t afford better jeans. Ex-boyfriends always wonder about stupid things like that. The next day I called the store to complain and they said, “Oh, you have the pair that got away. We’ve had issues with those jeans. They were overly stonewashed.”
Does Gigi have Munchausen Syndrome by blue jean? Does Joyce need a jean girdle? Was it my sexiness and not the stonewashing that caused my jeans to disintegrate? Doubtful on all accounts. And that’s the trouble with blue jeans. Whether they fit or not is only half the problem.