We’ve all had that person in our lives who seemed to know things – not the essential type of knowledge that underpins your education. No, this person knew things that were sketchy, if not wrong, and tempted you to join them. He showed you how to get your quarter back from a video game with fishing line or how to trick the scale at the grocery store’s bottle return. During the 70’s he gave you all kinds of bad advice and you might have taken it once or twice. Might have.

One glowing tidbit I received was the fact that jeans don’t burn. I was told this long before Snopes could verify it and before I knew the difference between fire resistant and fireproof. But like any guy, I loved fire. So I tested the theory with a match on my pants and it seemed to work. That’s fact-checking at its finest. 

I filed this useful tidbit of knowledge away for later use along with all the trivia rolling around in my noggin. And then one day, an opportunity presented itself.

Seated in a high school science class, our teacher had prepared those black top tables with Bunsen burners and about every other table had a pack of matches. Of course those glorious sticks of light were sitting directly in front of me. As was a young lady named Tammy.

I’d had a crush on Amy for some time. A novice at love, I was somewhere between the “kick her in the shins” and “say something clever” level of romantic maturity. When my mind retrieved the “jeans don’t burn” fact from the bowels of memory storage, I knew I had a winner. What could say, “you’re cute” better than a hot-butt that won’t set the room on fire? 

And so, I leaned over the table, lit a match, and proceeded to hold it directly under the small part of her tuckus poking out of the lab’s uncomfortable metal stools. 

This is where I learned something very startling. 

Jeans may not burn, but synthetic jean-like pants will go up like rocket fuel pouring from the space shuttle.

Too young to know textiles or fabrics, I quickly discovered that those weren’t jeans she was wearing. Of course, after her pants became engulfed in flame, she was wearing little else. Fortunately, she noticed quickly and patted herself out. Somehow, she wasn’t burned but the black-rimmed hole in her pants was bad. 

And me… I started feeling that sinking feeling I knew so well. This was not only a rejection of a lame attempt at fiery flirtation, but real trouble setting in. I had literally just lit a girl on fire in my high school science class.

Tammy must have been a saint. After covering herself with a jacket, she asked to be excused and came back ten minutes later in her gym pants. I, of course, apologized profusely and offered to replace the pants. Which I did in subsequent weeks.

And our relationship? That was doomed to the wasted ash of history.

But out of the ashes rose one of my kids favorite stories.

Everyone has some unique body dimensions or physical anomalies they have to deal with: ears that stick out, ugly feet, love handles. Some of these are more prominent than others and can be hard to minimize. It’s never really bothered me much, but I have massive thighs. I’m a clydesdale, so it’s probably because they have to hold up so much weight. The poor guy who measured me for my wedding tuxedo was worried about my pants falling down because the waist was so loose by the time he accounted for my thunder thighs. But it all worked out.

I’m a creature of habit. I typically rebuy things that work for me. I’ve been getting the same socks, deodorant, and toothpaste for decades. Labels may change, but as long as the product remains consistent there is no need to shop around. Mess with the product though, and it’s out. Lever 2000 changed their formula and it’s dead to me now.  

The same hold true for blue jeans. I was in high school when I bought my first pair of Levi’s 501’s – likely because of Bruce Springsteen. After all, Born in the USA was top of the charts and his butt was the album cover. I’ve long been resigned to the fact that my butt will never be on an album cover, but it can’t hurt to imitate those who have.

To compensate for my thighs, jeans end up loose in the seat. And that’s good. Then came skinny jeans. As most men should, I have avoided them like the plague. I am past the age where they would be appropriate for me anyway. But I have been very careful to buy “loose fit”. Nobody wants to see that.

Before Christmas, I noticed my jeans were ragged and I needed to buy a few new pairs. I hadn’t bought 501’s in a while so I decided maybe this was the time. Knowing my size, I ordered them and felt a little nostalgic when I opened the box. They looked like they came straight off The Boss!

I was dressing for work when the first hint of a problem arose. Somewhere over the years, they changed the cut. Maybe it was to save money in fabric or to be trendier, but Levi’s 501’s are NOT loose fit anymore. CURSE YOU LEVI STRAUSS!

Oh, I fit in them, but they were tight on the thunder.

My daughter hadn’t left for work yet so I asked her if they were too tight. She said no and that they would get looser during the day. Wrong and wrong… She’s young, she doesn’t know things.

They were most definitely too tight. I felt like I was subjecting my coworkers to a freakshow – the senior citizen in skinny jeans. Yuck! I will say that if anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. For that I’m grateful.

And they didn’t get looser. Going to the bathroom was basically like peeling off a wetsuit. And by the time the workday was over, I think my already disporportionate thighs had swollen under the building pressure. I was slightly afraid I wouldn’t be able to operate the pedals in my car.

I cannot adequately describe the relief I felt when I peeled them off for good at home. My poor thighs exhaled when they hit the floor and I think I heard a chorus of joy from them when I grabbed loose-fitting sweats. My body wasn’t made for that.

So Levis 501’s, you have now gone the way of Lever 2000 and New Coke. Shame on you – you had a good product.