Pants de Leon and the Fountain of Youth

It’s so good to be back. Today’s subject is fashion; jeans to be exact.  I mean, who doesn’t love a good ‘ole pair of jeans?

Once I graduated from the generic dungarees with iron-on knee patches of childhood, my jeans of choice were the classic Levi 501’s. Funny how loyal I was to that youthful, rugged, everyman denim look that all my friends were rockin’. Peer pressure perhaps? Problem was they never fit quite right. In today’s vernacular, if it’s “all about the bass” I had always been cursed to abide in the ample mid-range camp where handles of love abound. With one size up “baggy-butt” or “side-spillage” the only options available, I opted to fit (no pun intended) in the best I could. I guess I could have gone south and struggled into three or four pairs of tighty-whities to beef up the bass. That’s a joke. Don’t own any white Jockeys. And besides, I prefer the term Superman underwear. But I quickly learned an extra-large t-shirt would cover a multitude of seams…er….sins.

These days (cool way of saying “Why back in my day…“ without sounding like an old geezer) it appears as though filling one’s denims to overflowing doesn’t have quite the stigma it once had. Encapsulating a super-sized portion of McMuffin into some type of skin-tight clingy material is de rigueur. That’s so nice. I’m really glad this generation has abandoned the body self-image hang-ups in favor of letting it all hang out. Good for you. Why should skinny people get all the good clothes?

Just recently my wife and I went shopping for a new pair of pants for yours truly. She suggested I try on some different jeans. Different? Jeans? I felt faint.

Okay, lest you think I’ve been wearing 501’s all this time, relax, I am way too vain to go into middle (don’t laugh) age without kicking and screaming all the way. I have since switched to 514’s in various colors. There was a brief, passionate fling with Jordache in the late 70’s. A couple parts of my anatomy still ache to this day just thinking about it.  So with slightly less cajoling than it took to get Ben Affleck to don the Batman attire, I tried on some new super-slim jeans that cost about as much as a new car. Dang! They fit like a glove. Cotton with spandex or something.  I felt ten years younger. My wife winked her approval. Oh, yeah, so did the salesman. No comment.

Did I buy them? Well, sort of. Went to Nordstrom’s Rack and got a similar pair for less than the price of a Roman holiday. One can be hip and also frugal dontcha know. And being a musician means that even at my (younger than Keith Richards fer sure) age I can wear just about anything cool and not get much snickering.  Well, not too much.

K.G.

Where’s the Chocolate Chip Cookies?

When do I finally decide enough is enough, abandon Macy’s, and start buying clothes in bulk at Costco? Is there a magical age one reaches when the desire for a waist size that’s less than the size of a rotisserie chicken fades? Does one suddenly begin to crave the comforting, gentle hug of elastic around one’s midsection?

The other day as I was searching the cupboards for something to eat that wasn’t fattening, didn’t taste like tree bark, and would calm my cravings for French fries smothered in chili, nacho cheese and Ranch dressing, I came across an open bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. My wife had purchased said chips in order to convince me of her storied past as a baker in a well-known Beverly Hills establishment. Not that I didn’t believe her, but the proof is in the puddin’ (or cookie) and I had as yet to sample anything resembling a “Toll House.”

Now, in my mind (and on any cookie-lovin ‘ planet in this galaxy I will presume), an open bag of semi-sweet morsels equals homemade chocolate chip cookies. Without warning I was in bloodhound mode, using every available sense (except “common” I suppose) as I frantically searched for this delicious hidden treasure while trying not to slip on the drool.  Just then my wife came into the kitchen. Our conversation went something like this:

Ken: Where’s the chocolate chip cookies?

Bonnie: What?

Ken: The cookies. There must be cookies. Where are they? I said, wiping the spider-web sliver of drool from my chin.

Bonnie: I didn’t make any cookies.

Ken: But I found the open bag of chips. Why would you open the bag if you weren’t going to make cookies?

Bonnie: I wanted chocolate so I ate the chips.

Ken: Who eats semi-sweet chocolate chips? Aren’t they for making cookies?

Bonnie: STOP CALLING ME FAT!

Weight is a somewhat (pun so intended) heavy subject for most people, and I touched on one of her emotional triggers. We all have them. On Friday night I played a gig (musician’s term for “didn’t get paid”) with my band sMalltime.  Our bass player commented that I appeared to have gained some weight. Hmmm…

Instantly, my inner 15-year-old girl took over. I wanted to scratch his beady little eyes out even though I knew what he said wasn’t true. As a matter of fact, I’ve been on a hardcore (okay, hardcore for a 60-year-old man) training routine for months, was eating well, and felt better than I had in years.

Did I learn something? Of course.  Bass players are stupid.

K.G.

H20-No

I hope you’re feeling better dear
This lovely Tuesday morning
May I suggest you get some rest
Since you didn’t heed my warning

So just remember this, my love 
You gave me much joke fodder
So next time you fly far away
Please don’t drink the water

-© 2014 Kenneth Goorabian