
Working retail always includes folding numerous amounts of denim. I spent everyday wishing for an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and tedious hours making sure that the left pockets faced up, the tags tucked, and that the stacks of jeans sat in size order, ruler straight.
After a long Friday at one internship (where I was paid in vegan food at lunchtime), I stared at the new denim shipment. Christie, my bubbly employer ran over to run her hands down the denim. “Everyone loves these jeans,” she said. It was true. From May until August, everyone — rich tourists, trophy wives, motorcycle-gang lesbians — wanted these jeans despite their $295 price tag (my clothing allowance for a year). I ran my hands down the jeans. They felt like cashmere woven into a denim twill. Christie took pity on me and offered to charge me the wholesale price, a mere $110.
I stared at them the whole summer. Size 27. Low-rise. "Karen" fit. Chinese coin button surrounded by 24 perfect Swavorski crystals. Chinese Tang dynasty satin pockets. Satin waistband. (According to the sales representative the Tang dynasty symbol was just recently made legal to wear for those not related to the emperor's family.) And a satin fortune sewn into the back of the waistband read: "Tropical vacation is in your future." But the best was they really made my butt looked phenomenal. August arrived, and the $110 sat in my pocket from working at my other jobs. Roughly, these jeans cost 14 hours of work, and my parents could never know that I spent a dime on anything other than a loan payment. I picked up the jeans and held them for a second. Overwhelmed with guilt, I put them back. At the end of the day, Christie handed me the jeans. "I have money in my bag for them," I said. Christie shook her head, "No, please, you deserve them."