No wait, Greensboro, 1993. The year of the pants. The year of my first Goodwill shopping experience. The year of the day that fate led me to my pants. Destiny. Kismet. Me and my pants, together forever.
I'll always remember that special day.....I entered Goodwill with a sneer on my lip, an eyeroll at the ready and a smart remark on the tip of my tongue. I didn't shop at Goodwill! I was a J.Crew girl! An Express chick! A Gap gal. I was only here under protest with my friends who thought it would be a good time. Until It happened.
My eyes fell upon the pants that were meant to be mine. The pre-softened denim. The broken-in seat. The perfectly worn thin spots in the fabric. I hurriedly raced to try them on. They fit like a dream! These pants were clearly made for my body. A quick snip with the scissors and these bad boys were going to be my new shorts. Tucking my prize under my arm lest someone else spot my loot, I hastened to the register and forked over my $1.50. Then they were mine....all mine.
All was well until I arrived home. Despite my head over heels love for the garment, it seems that a pair of men's Wrangler's with a wallet mark and a Skoal circle embedded on the rear pockets was not what my mother had in mind for her teenaged daughter's ensemble. Stubbornly, I cut the jeans into shorts and tried them on.
"You're going to get crabs!" yelled my mom desperately.
I admired the view from the back. I admired the view from the front. The dip ring added just the right amount of charm to these shorts. I couldn't imagine why everyone at my high school didn't have these shorts. Nothing could be more fetching. Clearly, they weren't lucky enough.
"Those probably belonged to some...some....construction worker!" mom grasped at straws, wringing her hands. "Who knows what he had!"
I sat down. These were by far the most comfortable pants I had ever sat in. I could vaguely hear my mom scolding and nagging, nagging and scolding in the background, but her words were drowned out by the angelic music emanating from these here britches of mine. I was in pants heaven.
My mom never did grow to like those shorts. Not in high school. Not in college. Not while I was teaching. I am relatively certain that she will not be thrilled to know that they still exist today. That they are worn around her grandson. And most importantly? That they still fit me. They're magic pants, my dip ring shorts. I was so obviously meant to be with these, my own magical pants. I mean, how can you go wrong with this look?
That's right, class. You can't.