“What is this?” demanded Doug as he held up one of his pre-Christmas offerings.
“They’re jeans,” I said. “You mentioned none of yours fit. I was at Walmart with Anna, and we just happened to pass them.”
He stared at me for a moment and blinked. “You bought me jeans at Walmart?”
“Yes. That’s not as taboo as it was buying sneakers at Kmart.”
“Did you read the label before you bought them?” he said, pointing at it incredulously.
“Yes. Why?”
More blinking.
“They’re Wranglers.”
“What’s wrong with Wranglers? My dad used to wear them in the 1980s.”
“Exactly. That’s how my mom dressed me until I was old enough to fight back. She called them ‘dungarees.’”
“They’re classic. C’mon, at least try them on. Just so we can see if that’s your new size.”
“Nope. I haven’t put on a pair of Wranglers since I was 11 years old, and I’m not putting them on now.”
“The guy wearing them on the label is hot. So they can’t be that bad.”
“Take them back.”
“Look…we’re not rich. And we’re going on 49. Who the hell cares about labels anymore? Are we trying to find a place at the popular table? Who cares what other people think?”
This morning, here was the scene waiting for me by my computer.
I think Doug’s going to hang onto his britches after all…just for fun.