It is no secret that I had the breeziest of weeks. And by that I do not, in any way shape or form, mean breezy as in easy. I mean breezy and in actual breeze. Like a gust of wind where you typically don’t feel it. Meaning I freaking ripped my pants. Not once, but TWICE. Back to back days, ladies and gentlemen. Now THAT takes talent. Who the HELL does that. It takes me back to the last time I ripped my pants trying to show up a boy in gym class…..in 2nd grade. That was mortifying enough but, as an adult we’re talkin’ a whole new level of cone-of-shame-ness. So, without further ado: the story of me channeling my inner SpongeBob.
So, here I am. Minding my own business at work, wearing my favorite BDG girlfriend fit jeans from Urban. I used to wear these puppies basically every single day. They’re incredible…and I thought they were durable.
Until this week. Luckily for me, I was on my way out of work when disaster struck. I had scooped up my stuff from the back (including my denim jacket THANK GOD) and stopped by the bathroom before returning home. I did the good ole thread your fingers through the belt loops, bend your legs and yank trick (you know the one). I have probably done that a million and one times in these exact jeans. Tell me why this time I hear a giant RIIIIIIIIIIP. Even just typing that literally sends chills down my spine. And not in a good way. God, I wish I could recreate the noise on this blog post because it was BRUTAL. It sounded like someone working on a production team had hijacked the bathroom as their own personal studio and played a sound effect called “extremely exaggerated ripped pants noise.” But, unfortunately for me, it was real. All too real.
So I’m thinking no way did that just happen. I turn around and SURE ENOUGH THERE IT IS. Starting at my waist band and going all the way down to the back of my knee cap, THERE IT IS BABBBBY. And not only was the rip incredibly visible. So was my ass!!!
Wooo!!! What a way to walk around Cafe Gratitude!!! I basically just froze for a second, stared at my bare butt in the mirror and tried to troubleshoot while simultaneously trying to figure out how to conceal my laugher so people don’t think I’m a psychopath laughing hysterically in the bathroom alone. Enter my denim jacket, my mf savior. Like a true pro, I tied it around my waist and walked out of the bathroom with tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. I also gotta mention that I was basically dragging one leg behind me like a dead leg because I wasn’t sure if my jacket was covering my entire ass and I was horrified of the alternative possibility. Just picture that for a second.
In typical me fashion, I felt the need to tell everybody I saw what had just happened. I feel like when shit goes wrong in my life, I just make a joke out of it rather than actually deal. I realize this isn’t the healthiest way to deal with problems and I’m working on it, give me a break. The next chapter of this story comes with my gas tank being on E. So I had to stop at the nearest sketchy ass gas station (aren’t they all??) and get gas in the condition that I was in. And it was windy. And the denim jacket around my waist blew around a bit and it was all embarrassing and super super great. But, hey I survived….
ONLY TO COME BACK THE NEXT DAY AND MANIFEST THAT SHIT TO HAPPEN AGAIIIIIIIN. Fist thing I did when I got to work the next day was make a joke about ripping these jeans as well. And since I put that out there, the universe turned around and gave me a big ole middle finger. Now, I must say that the second pair I ruined are definitely older. I got them from this little boutique I used to shop at in Iowa City, called White Rabbit, probably three years ago. They’re stretchy and I knew they were nearing their final days. But I haven’t been able to get rid of them. Man, those jeans and I have some memories.
Yet again, though, I’m getting ready to leave work and I do the exact same thing!!!! It’s the freaking belt loop wiggle around pull up you guys!!! DO NOT DO IT. She is a dannnngerous move. This time, the sound was less horrifying and I was a bit less shocked. Probably because I was so desensitized from yesterday’s extravaganza. I did not, however, have anything with me to cover myself with besides my work uniform t-shirt…which, thank god, fits me like a dress because I’m short as hell.
I drowned my sorrows by buying 2 new pairs of jeans the following day. Both of which are the same brand (one even the same style) as the denim that ripped the first day. I would like to take this time to mention that I also have gone down a size in jeans since I purchased the ones that ripped. So we are 100% not sure why this happened. Or why bad things happen to good people. Or why I thought it would be smart to buy the same faulty jeans twice. Or why spending $145 in denim replacement is a good idea between paydays. Lots of unanswered questions here. But one thing I do know for sure is that ripping your pants at 22 is slightly (incredibly) more awful than it is in 2nd grade. History repeats itself and manifestation is a real thing people. If you would like to donate to the Holly Reimer ripped pants denim replacement fund lmk.