Evisu, True Religion, G-Star, Slim Flare, Citizens of Humanity, 7 For All Mankind, Diesel . . . I found I could not sleep at night unless I recited names of fabulous jeans, jeans that cost between $200-400, jeans that boasted of denim so soft, so textured, so resplendent, so magical, so distinctive, and so empowering that they put all other jeans to shame and rendered the wearers of those inferior jeans pariahs unworthy of my company. The glorious name-brand jeans I am speaking of had almost supernatural powers so that simply wearing them afforded you membership to a special club, a high-brow coterie of people in-the-know, people who could not be bothered by the rest of mundane humanity. This underground designer jean society often communicated on Internet message boards, chat sites, and met monthly at swank cocktail parties where they would show-off their jeans to others whose jean expertise made them qualified to truly appreciate the way the jeans showcased your svelte thighs, cupped and massaged your rock-hard buttocks, and delineated the appropriate, eye-brow-raising bulges in your serpentine crotch. Marriages and other dynamic relationships were born from these designer jean parties where matches were made in denim heaven.
Of course, ordinary people lacked the imagination and refined sensibility to seek out and wear the designer jeans I am speaking of. Rather, only a rare breed, a self-described cognoscenti, coveted these elite jeans. We were people who were plugged-in to a secret society, a mysterious network through which our belonging entitled us to know everything that went on in this world that “really mattered” before it “went mainstream.” We had, for instance, software embedded in our cell phones so that when a new jean came out on the market or a jean went on sale our cell phone vibrated pleasantly and thereby alerted us to a new consumer opportunity. We had unique access to special underground warehouses in the garment district where we could buy jeans as rare and mysterious as the Dead Sea Scrolls. These were underground locations so secret we had to be blindfolded and escorted down several spiral stairs to a dank basement where an old lady with moth-ball breath would rudely shove the pair of designer jeans into our hands after we gave her a wad of cash. We weren’t even allowed to try the jeans on, but because their very elusiveness gave them unusually high cachet among the designer jean community, we took the chance that they’d be a perfect fit and usually we were right and found that these underground designer jeans afforded us glories that no other jean could give us.
This isn’t to say that we, as members of the elite designer jean cult were absent of problems. We had some, to be sure. One is that once we put on a pair of jeans that we absolutely loved, we found it almost impossible to take the jeans off, even for showers, the beach, and bedtime, so that for many of us our jeans doubled as bathing suits and pajama bottoms. Also the first day we got our jeans we’d often be overcome with a sort of ambulatory mania by which we’d feel compelled to walk all over town so that the world could see us in our perfect-fit jeans. We’d strut across the mall, around the neighborhood, and into strange homes and do a pirouette until we were escorted off the premises or chased away by vicious attack dogs. We couldn’t wash these jeans because every wash faded and thus diminished them. Thus we walked around in filthy, great looking denim rags, Fabreezing them, but soon, that's wasn’t enough to curtail the stench.
I suppose you can tell by what I’ve written so far that I had reached a point in life where jeans had become the focal point of my wardrobe and body image and, yes, my very existence. Knowing that my fabulous jeans allowed me to wear any tattered shirt I wanted and still be “dressed up” gave me a sense of security and smug self-satisfaction that no other clothing article could give me.
Deep down, though, I knew my jean fetish wouldn’t last forever. Deep down I knew the magical jean aura would dissipate and I’d be left with the anxiety of facing the abyss of personal emptiness and would therefore have to cling to some other consumer obsession in the area of gadgetry, automobiles, Persian rugs, fine wines, pungent cheeses. Or I’d become a fanatic of hit TV show like Lost or Survivor or American Idol. Whatever fetish I chose, I’m sure it would be something larger than I, something I could disappear inside of for a while, something that would help me forget my pathetic existence, my feebleness, my smallness, my anonymity. It would be something that would make me feel big, important, and god-like, something that would make me feel like I could rub shoulders with the very celebrities I read about, something that would make me feel like I was on an important mission, like saving the world.