Which is a bummer.
Tonight I was with my daughter shopping for clothes. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror wearing what were “Dad jeans.” And it was my moment to slink into depressive moment or rage against nature.
I asked for the “Jeans department” to regain my youthful dignity. After pawing through rows of Vin Diesel jeans, torn, ripped, stone washed, bleached and with cute button flys (for guys who would think having a cute button down fly is a good idea).
After refusing help several times from the sales clerk, I finally broke down and said, “Basically I am trying to find some, you know, jeans. That are ….um… ‘age appropriate.’ But not too obviously age appropriate.”
He asked me my size and said, he may have something in the back….like Lucky Jeans. He brought me three pair of what I immediately exclaimed were “Dad jeans.”
Another shopper about 5 years my junior started laughing and said, “Look, man, Lucky’s are OK.”
I said I would browse some more. I did but after 5 minutes felt the end of the “jeans phase” of my life ending.
Like when I was no longer able to get away with collecting Pop-a-Shot tickets at Gattilamd for a prize.
At 35. As I walked out the clerk shouted “Any luck?” “Nope!” I said. “Just gonna have to admit my jeans days are over.”
I paused. “Do up have white socks, sandals and plaid shorts in this section?” And I didn’t have to use the qualifier “age appropriate.”