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My friend made me purchase APC jeans four years anon by preying upon my sexual insecurity and midwestern desire to disguise my inbred physical shame. (“God invented clothes for a reason.”)
I had never shopped at an establishment with an ethos before. Well, excluding Cracker Barrel. But the surly staff—in my memory it is naught but a series of red-heads of milky-white skin and washed-out color palettes—was quick to proselytize and show me the error of my ways.
Salesperson: “What size?”
Me: “28.” [I have the body-mass index of an eight-year old… girl… in Somalia.]
Salesperson. “Here’s a 26.” 26? Are such pants even manufactured outside of the American Girl Doll Factory? I had no idea.
Naturally, these pants were of a silhouette known as “The Riddler” by the lay-person. I couldn’t move or bend. My belongings no longer fit in my pockets. In fact, the pockets seemed so flesh with the pant that they were like ear lobes healing themselves after piercing. I bruised my legs, my hips, even my buttocks… or lack thereof.
I never washed those pants because I followed the salesperson’s instructions like it was a fashion ghaad, someday to be surrounded by 70 virgin-cotton tees. I wore them everyday. At one point, they were the only pants I owned. They degraded to the level of obscenity—leading to an unbeknownst exposure at a summer watering hole.
I can no longer afford a new pair. And, I am devastated.