I have a pair of carpenter jeans that I really enjoy wearing. In fact, I have several pairs of carpenter jeans; light ones, dark ones, and slightly lightish-darker ones. They are very comfortable. They fit me nice. They are Levi’s carpenter jeans.
But on April 2nd, 2013, something happened. One of those jeans suffered a rip down the thigh when it got caught on a sharp object. Dismayed, I texted my girlfriend so that I may be consoled. To my surprise (and shock), she did not offer her condolences. In fact, she offered no emotion WHATSOEVER. At the time, it struck me as a little odd. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that not only didn’t she care that I ripped my carpenter jeans, but she actually reveled in the joy of knowing I had one less pair of carpenter jeans. Here is my evidence.
About a year ago, I was in the market for new jeans. My old Levi’s carpenter jeans had been worn to shreds and it was time to buy new Levi’s carpenter jeans. It’s all part of what I like to call “The Levi’s Carpenter Jeans Cycle of Life.”
Anyway, to me it was easy. Go to the store and pick up the exact same jeans, in the exact same color, in the exact same size and not try it on. That way, this process can be virtually painless. But my girlfriend at the time (who is the same girlfriend today, unless it’s a clone [of course]) insisted that she come with me to “pick out new jeans.”
Pick out new jeans? There was nothing to ‘pick out.’ But whatever, I allowed her to accompany me on this journey that I scheduled to last no more than three minutes (depending on the length of the checkout line).
But… the girlfriend had different plans. She wanted me to try on all sorts of different styles and brands and even made me SHOW THEM TO HER. With each pair I tried on, two more would be thrown over the dressing room door. It was an endless stream of jeans, but oddly, there were no carpenter jeans.
I shrugged off the fact that there were no carpenter jeans in the pile, thinking that maybe she just didn’t see them. I mean, after all, they were sitting next to all the other jeans. Anyone could miss that.
After about an hour and a half, I had my new jeans in hand, bought and paid for. I was happy with these new jeans. I expressed this to my girlfriend.
“I really like these jeans… and not a single one are carpenter jeans!” I casually said.
“I know,” she countered. “That’s a good thing.”
That’s a good thing? I had to ask what she meant.
“What do you mean?” I asked, perplexed.
“Those jeans are so old fashioned. And it’s not like you’re a carpenter anyway. What do you need with so many pockets?”
I felt as if she insulted my own mother.
“What do you mean? I LOVE those pockets! I can put all sorts of things in those pockets!” I defended.
“It’s time you wear some jeans that are more trendy and in style. Besides, you look really good in them!” she said, melting my heart.
I decided to drop the issue. After all, she did say I looked good in my new jeans. I thought I looked pretty sexy in my carpenter jeans, but I was happy to increase my sex appeal with my new jeans, if even by a nominal amount.
Over the next several months, the snarky comments about my carpenter jeans increased. Whether it be comments like “Can I put some Chapstick in one of your 80 pockets?” or “Didn’t you wear those stupid jeans yesterday?” or even tugging on the pocket where my hammer should go while she mockingly asks, “Where’s your hammer?” Yes, I put up with all kinds of abuse.
Then April 2nd came around. One of my jeans ripped. I was so bummed. I texted Sarah the bad news:
Nothing. No response. She eventually wrote back to another unrelated question, but didn’t mention the tragedy my jeans suffered. Later, I texted her again:
“Okay have fun”???? OKAY HAVE FUN??? WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING JEANS, WOMAN?!?!?!?! Clearly, she was ignoring the crisis in my pants. She had NO SYMPATHY for the fate my jeans suffered. In fact, it is my belief that she actually took GREAT JOY in the rip that rendered my jeans completely unusable.
I spent the next several weeks gathering evidence, tapping her phone, and opening her mail; all in search of that “smoking gun” that would indicate she was behind The Great Carpenter Jeans Conspiracy. Nothing. She covered her tracks well and her alibis were air tight. Frustrated, I decided one evening to just come out and ask.
“How come you didn’t say anything about my pants that ripped? Did you even care??” I asked, exhaustedly.
The look she gave me sent chills down my spine. It was a look reminiscent of this popular internet meme:
“YOU WANTED THOSE JEANS TO RIP, DIDN’T YOU?” I asked, hysterically.
“Those jeans are so stupid!” she exclaimed, “Why do you need that many pockets?”
I paused, in shock. With my lips trembling and tears streaming down my face, the truth was out.
The mystery may have been solved, but my heart remains broken.
Author’s Note: I was going to call this piece “Crisis in my Pants” but I suspect I will use that title for another post in the future.