I braved the mall for you, walking past the guy pimping the Rosetta Stone, the girl demonstrating the hair crimper, and that odd place that sells weirdly-patterned…what I guess are cell phone protectors. The kiosk salespeople are getting more hawkish in these difficult economic times. Some even dared to speak to me as I hurried by. They were probably high on amphetamine, or the waft of Cinnabon coming from the food court, but I was unswayable in my quest toward our destiny. I only have thighs for you.
How I remember the first time I slid you on, the fluorescent-lighted dressing room making me worried someone could see our intimacies through the slats of the door. It was your cut that clinched it for me. I’m loyal–despite the vagaries in sizes from store to store–to 34” x 30”, and I was instantly comfortable with your standard-cut-chino-self. It was as though you were made for me, or that I’d worn you in a previous life. No alterations were needed, my snug (but not too snug; I need my space) little compatriot. My body has an odd hitch in the middle–my ass juts backwards where anyone would want it to stay home–but you offered no gripe at my physical deviations, contorting to my hills and valleys without so much as a bind, pinch or ballooning in the crotch. We fit so well together, I sometimes wonder if J. Crew might be J. Cupid in disguise.
(Your tag says you were made in China, but let’s keep that between ourselves when we visit my parents.)
We were inseparable for weeks. You were game for anything–a park stroll, a trip to the grocery, a night out–always looking comfortable and classy. With a collared shirt I could wear you to work, and in the evenings I chose you instead of sweat pants. Trips to the coast required only the slightest adjustment to your cuffs. Oh, sweet black chino, those were heady, heady days.
Still, it wasn’t long before time bred familiarity, and you started looking tired and a little sad on our sojourns back home. Your former tautness seemed to give way to slack. The casual insult of a mustard stain never quite went away, and–perhaps it’s improper of me to mention–I started noticing wrinkles. You seemed to have quit trying.
In light of this, I have a surprise for you. While you were in the wash, I ran out and bought two more pair! Now, don’t be jealous. Yes, the grey slim cuts are thinner, but that’s only material, and haven’t we learned size doesn’t matter? I also sprang for a pair of blue corduroys (corduroy, by God! Crew has me in corduroy!) on sale for a mere $24. They had copper ones too, but they looked trashy. My tastes are more conventional, as you know.
All three of you will be cleaned and folded every Sunday, and stacked amongst each other on the closet shelf, where you’ll await my choice. I want no static from any of you, and hopefully this rotation will keep you all fresher longer. You have to admit, dearest, our relationship needed a bit of breather, and no matter what transpires with these new additions, you will always have been my first.