A Review of Old Navy Skinny Jeans
Sometimes rips in pants are not all that fashionable.
I was headed to the Times Square Sbarro dressed in some of my finest semi-casual clothing.
It’s not like I normally don my finest frock to go to the chain restaurant. I don’t even go there. Not ironically or otherwise. It’s not like I’m too good for that kind of restaurant (I once took a high school crush to a Ponderosa on Valentine’s Day, so it’s not like I ooze upper crust class), but I do like to avoid being judged whenever possible. And New Yorkers (or people who consider themselves to be) will absolutely and completely judge you if they find out you decided to get a slice from a fucking Sbarro.
And I also, like so many people who adopt New York City as one of the places that serve as a home base during a certain phase of their lives, did my best to avoid Times Square, especially on Saturday evenings. I’ve always felt like that crowded and somewhat gaudy place has some very special appeal and allure to it. (Before I lived in New York I once did some drugs during a visit and wandered around Times Square and the surrounding area from 4AM until the sun rose, but that’s a story for another time). But it could also be more than overwhelming, especially to someone whose general mode is “at least a little bit anxious.” (Something you could say about most alluring things, I suppose.)
Here I was, however, about to take the M-Train from Bushwick to Manhattan where I would meet in real life for the first time a woman I’d known for a while through a somewhat random online connection. A definite attraction had commenced over emails and other exchanges and we’d decided it was time one of us make a trip to the other to see what might happen. Her bus from DC was dropping her off at Sbarro where I’d retrieve her and we’d begin a night out in the city with some friends.
I was, as usual, already running late when I bounded up the steps to the train stop two at a time. Near the top I heard and felt a rip in my crotchal region and, when I looked down to examine the damage, realized it was rather severe. There was a large and pretty noticeable hole in my semi-new Old Navy skinny jeans that showed off my boxer briefs that were, for some reason, adorned with watermelons.
This was worrisome. Not exactly how you want to present yourself to someone for the first time. And it was a drafty night on top of that, so my nethers were probably going to be none-too-happy with me if I opted to stay the course instead of going home to change. But it was either that or be egregiously late, which is also (believe me) not a great look when you’re about to go on a first date.
“Buy the ticket, take the ride,” I thought as I shrugged then stepped onto the train. I reasoned that I’d shown up on previous dates looking much worse for the wear and that maybe this might somehow work in my favor. Something for me to immediately address that we could hopefully joke about with each other to get through those initial awkward moments of a first meeting.
Fortunately it worked. She was far from offended and had a good laugh at my misfortune—especially when I took her through the brief moment I spent in angst wondering if my most prudent move was to double back to my apartment for a wardrobe change, punctuality be damned.
The night was one of the most fun I’d had in quite some time—though at certain points my groin did get a little bit chilly. It was certainly worth ruining a pair of jeans for, which I can’t say about many if not most of the dates I’ve gone on during my romantic career.
The next morning we got on the train and headed back to Sbarro so she could catch her bus home. Afterward I walked around Times Square by myself for a while.
That location is now closed.
She is now married with children.
We remain good friends.
Before long I discovered the majesty of skinny jeans with stretch material that help me move more freely, which I still purchase from Old Navy (five out of five stars on the stretchy ones), because the rip was not their fault. You’re not exactly supposed to be leaping up steps in a pair of non-stretch skinny pants.
And I haven’t looked back.