Perthetic

It all started off pretty well at the bank. I shoved my dubious deposit envelope into the “Express Deposits” slot in the wall. The metal and paint surrounding the slot were well worn so I knew I was in good company with lots of fellow misanthropes around. Even the juice bar was OK as I provided some business tips to the proprietor about how, in business; competitive immune systems were not the opposite of competition. His employee passed me my carrot and ginger juice, I waved “cheerio” and sauntered off along the gay boulevards of Innaloo mall. If only I had known what awaited me…

Last year Jeans West sold a jean called “Selvedge”; they had rips in them. This season’s new style is called “Selvedge Repaired,” according to the signage in the window.

“This sounds more my style,” I thought. None of this bloody pretentious fake rip stuff.

I amble in and start looking at some shit. There’s a GMILF in there as well with very high heels and a tight business skirt. She is looking at shit as well. She’s hard bitten and I’m getting hard looking at her shoes and legs.

“Do you think a man my age could wear these?” I posed to her, picking up a pair of jeans.

She looked at the jeans.

“People can wear anything nowadays,” she nodded.

“Thank god that isn’t true,” I replied.

But then I suddenly became addled! How had my statement been interpreted? WTF did it mean, anyway?!? I became nervous and moved away.

Finally, a sales assistant appeared. “Can I help?”

“I wanted to look at those Repaired jeans you have advertised in your window.”

“The men’s ones are over here,” she beckoned – thankfully, in a direction away from the GMILF.

I pick a pair up. They still had plenty of rips in them.

“The repairs must be very subtle,” I pondered to myself, examining them more closely.

I check rip after rip after rip after rip but all the rips ARE ALL STILL FULLY FUCKING RIPPED.

“They don’t seem very well repaired,” I gently probe the sales chick.

She looks at me like I have just suffered a catastrophic dematerialization from the transporter deck of the starship Enterprise.

“They’re not repaired. They’re just called Repaired.”

“AH. FUCK. WHY AM I SO STUPID?” I begin beating into thousands of my neurons.

I nod and study the other parts of the jeans that are not rips.

I discover that they are not only unrepaired, they have been disrepaired, as well. There are spots and dribbles of white paint all over the front and legs of the jeans.

“Do they all have these?” I ask.

“All the men’s do, yes.”

“Do you think many men would wear these?” I declare with gravitas.

“Yes.”

I’ve run out of conversation, so I leave.

It was only half way back to the car – whilst I was considering what the appropriate colloquialism for a GMILF in a swinger’s club might be and was wondering whether the term “looking like a plasterer’s radio” might be appropriate – when I realized what the intent of the jeans was. No, it wasn’t to provide a mosaic of faux spunk stains. It was to appear to be a tradesperson! Tradespersons’ jeans for non-tradespeople! But why stop at painting? Why not bits of electrical wire poked into them? Or soaked in pooey water? And the top of the range? Bits of silver insulation foil!

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 16th, 2010 at 2:26 pm and is filed under perth. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.