A few weeks ago I got a message from the nice people at Joe's Jeans asking me if I had any interest in talking about their product here. I get a fair amount of e-mail like that, as I've said before, but because I normally decline such offers, my penis has remained resolutely unaugmented.
But the note from Joe — he lets me call him that — was different. You see, I already wear his jeans, and let me tell you this: they are no mere denim trouser. They are, in fact, pure cotton alchemy. (Well, 98% alchemy. The other 2% is Spandex or something.)
Rather than merely slipcovering my postpartum bulges as lesser jeans do, somehow these jeans transform them. What were cameline lumps become womanly curves. Where there used to be an unsightly pouch of slack fabric around the crotch that made me look like I was packing...uh, well, these don't have that. And Joe and his skilled team of tailors have given my flat-butted body something I've never had before: the priceless gift of ass.
I wear the Muse cut, a high-waist fit. ("Think Marlene Dietrich," advises the Web site, promising Hollywood glamour. Translation: Think "Don't wear these to clean out the garage. These are nice, you jackass.") But I have not always been so, you know, Hollywood glamorous, and I have photographic proof.
The year? 1988. The hair? Gigantic. The glasses? Also gigantic. The sweater? Benetton, argyle. The precision timepiece? Swatch, unscented. The jacket? Members Only. (Not pictured.) The jeans?
I've come a long way, baby.
Eventually I put aside the hateful slacks of yesteryear, and now, several regrettable fashion decisions later, am a satisfied Joe's wearer. So when I saw the inquiry in my inbox, I lunged at the chance to share what I have learned, and to offer you your own Joe's.
Five lucky winners will receive their own free pair, and all you have to do is tell me your best story about pants — either on or off.
I've shared many a story here involving pantless medical moments. Share your own, or your funniest, or your proudest, or even your most embarrassing:
Freshman year in college. I am entertaining a gentleman caller. It is my first encounter with button-fly jeans, and I am surprised at the ease with which they open. A single jerk and it's done. "Oh," I exclaim, and I swear I mean the buttons when I ask him, "Is that all?"
Don't leave me alone in self-abasement. Post your stories here. You might just win some jeans. Or at the very least you might just help me forget, at least for a moment, the dungarees of shame.