One is clearly worse than the other. I mean, duh.
The horror of shopping for jeans does not discriminate. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a person looking forward to purchasing them. It’s an awful experience. People who sell jeans should have tissues at the ready and possibly have some sort of experience in assisting shoppers in various stages of the grief cycle.
I bring this up because while in the midst of a really shitty mood, I announced to my family I was going to run up to a thrift store to look for jeans.
There are a variety of ways my husband and daughter could have approached this situation.
- Uproarious laughter
- Launching something at my head (like a cat, perhaps) and knocking me out
- Tackling me, thus making it impossible to walk out the door
Instead, they chose to half-nod and go back to playing Minecraft.
It is one thing to go to a store with a single brand of jeans and endure that torture. You dial that shit up to eleven when you go to a thrift store. All the jeans are organized by size — kind of. There is no grouping by brand. The junior sizes are combined with women sizes. It’s the worst florescent lighting, pretty much ever. And everyone looks defeated. Did I mention I went there in the late evening? Yeah. I did that.
I tried on maybe seven pairs of jeans, each one making me feel more and more dejected. I’m pretty sure that by the last few, I was audibly whimpering. I busted out crying by the final pair.
Heed my warning. Avoid thrift shopping for jeans unless you’re a sadomasochist or … no, there’s no alternative. Only do it if you’re a sadomasochist.
Here are a few Genes, in closing, to help you forget about the terror that was the preceding story:
I kid. Like there’s any way in hell I would end on a bad Gene.