Defective Jeans

When I moved to Colorado, I took a job as a server at Gunther Toody’s. I lasted one week.

Why such a short-lived serving career, you ask? The answer to that question is two-fold.

Reason one: Three days into my training, I was tested on the menu. One of the questions was Explain the difference between Marilyn Fries and Elvis fries. I wrote, “Elvis fries can only be filmed from the waist up.”

I thought that was hilarious.

My trainer disagreed.

And reason two: Black jeans.

When I was hired, the standard uniform included a pair of black jeans. I questioned whether you could even buy black jeans anymore. My trainer assured me that they were available and advised that I try Wal-Mart. (Of course.)

Per my trainer’s suggestion, I visited my local Wal-Mart that very night, and sure enough…black jeans. Wranglers, no less. I went home straight away to try them on.

And then I quit the next day.

I don’t know exactly what is wrong with black jeans, but there's definitely something wrong with them. I grant you, a small percentage of the population can successfully pull off a pair of black jeans, but that percentage consists of super sexy/sweaty farm boys and your average-looking Peeping Toms. I am part of neither demographic.

If you are reading this and feel that you can rock black jeans, I invite you… nay… implore you to send in a picture. Prove me wrong.

In theory, black jeans are brilliant. Black goes with everything and jeans go with everything. Black jeans, therefore, should be a staple in every person’s wardrobe, right? Wrong! In real life, a pair of black jeans will only embarrass and disappoint. It’s so disheartening.

I still have my pair of black jeans. I don’t know why.

Sometimes, when I’m very bored, I slip them on. For whatever reason, though, they never get any more flattering.

I’ve tried to dress them up with a nice shirt and a jacket. Nope. I’ve tried to dress them down with flip-flops and a graphic T. Still nothin.’ Every attempt ends the same way: with me standing in front of the mirror, studying my reflection with the same expression my mother uses whenever my father breaks wind in church next to her.

I know I should probably just give up and get rid of them. But I’m afraid that if I do that, suddenly a situation will present itself that calls for a pair of jet-black Wrangler jeans.

That’s probably unlikely, though.

I quit Gunther Toody’s with no notice. They’ll never hire me back again. -- Steven J. Burge


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