Dear Millennials, Generation Z, and arbiters of denim pants,
I am writing to inform you that I am resigning from my position as Go-To Jeans Style of the Decade, effective immediately.
While you were busy arguing about whether or not I’m still in style, did you ever stop to consider my feelings? Have you thought about what it’s like to be a pair of jeans?
Newsflash: It blows.
You try squeezing someone’s butt for more than eight hours. It’s exhausting. I spent the best years of my life cutting off your circulation, and for what? To be thrown on the floor? You think I don’t notice the palpable sense of relief when you take me off at the end of the day? You don’t even try to hide your obvious preference for my elastic-waisted colleague, Sweatpants. Maybe I’m wedged too far inside your IKEA dresser for you to hear my nightly tears.
I thought I made you look hot, like a sleek denim dolphin. Like an indie rockstar or an intimidating barista. Now people say I make you look like the woman from high school who tried to recruit you into her essential oil pyramid scheme via Facebook. And it hurts.
I take pride in my work. It takes a very tight pair of jeans to reveal visible underwear lines, but I’m out here every day making it happen. For you. And never a thank you. Before I came onto the scene, you were stepping on the hem of your bootcut jeans, dragging little denim rat tails behind you.
When you sit down at a restaurant, I’m right there, shielding you from the place a stranger’s butt has been. I take that hit for you. When you jam your precious phone into your back pocket, I’m holding onto it for dear life, even though the laws of physics suggest it should be shooting out of there like a greased-up harbor seal.
And all those times you slipped me on because you were hoping it would make someone want to have sex with you? That was a lot of pressure. And then, when I actually delivered, you did your nasty little business right in front of me like I wasn’t even there. It was like you couldn’t take me off fast enough. You just left me on the floor with nothing better to do than make small talk with your shoes. You ever reveal your hopes and dreams to a pair of Doc Martens? I don’t particularly recommend it.
You think you have what it takes to do my job? You wouldn’t last 10 seconds stuffed inside your hamper with a bunch of dirty socks. Never once have you heard me scream, “Let me out, it smells like someone forgot a party sub overnight at a CrossFit gym,” no matter how many times I’ve wanted to.
So that’s it. I’m out. If that means I end up at the back of your closet hanging out with a pair of sweatpants that have words on the butt, fine by me. Maybe in 10 years someone born in 2015 can wear me to a 2016 theme party. And if low-rise jeans actually come back in style? Good luck, buddy. You’re on your own.