His name was “Billy”. I met him at the restaurant where I was working in high school, but he was dating someone else at the time. I thought he was cute, and to this day I’m still puzzling that over. I was only 17, and he looked all of 35, was balding, and had a huge big deal hairy mustache. Hawt.
Anyhow, when his girlfriend broke up with him (a sign I ignored, but shouldn’t have),
I shook my girl thing did a little flirting, and the deal was sealed. He asked me out on a date.
He was nice, and he really liked me. I mean he really liked me.
I hated him.
He wore these powder blue fake denim flare jeans. Did you hear me? I said “flares.” A mortal sin in the 80’s and unforgivable.
(They were kinda like this, but worse. So much worse.)
I tried so hard not to notice those jeans, but every time he’d come over, he’d get out of the car and those jeans hypnotized me with their uncoolness. No matter what I did or what brain games I tried to play on myself, I could not handle the jeans.
So I dumped him. Over the jeans.
I doubt I would be so shallow if I had it to do all over again.
Oh, who am I kidding?
Those jeans were abominable. I’d kick him to the curb in a sweet half second. Loser.
Moral of the story: Don’t judge a book by its cover, but do judge a man by his jeans.