When I see someone wearing pleated jeans – I live in the Midwest, so it happens – I resist the temptation to view them as an out-of-touch fashion loser. I like to imagine they have a higher purpose - I like to think they’re making a doomed, noble stand against the tyranny of time.
“No,” they say, “I have gone this far and shall go no further! You may have forced the rest of the world to march on, cracked the whip of ‘change’ over their heads – wide leg, skinny leg, acid wash, stone wash, whisker wash, low waist, high waist – no more, say I! No more shall I suffer the oppressor’s scourge, loving then hating each new style, proclaiming each as the true messiah then next season stabbing it in the back as a false prophet! I defy you, fickle time, and I wait… I wait.
“My day will come… like bell bottoms and hip huggers before me, time will return to the pleated jean. And on that glorious day - as the huddled masses, sickened by the sight of their once glorious flat fronts, scramble over one another, questing from mall to mall in search of those little stitched folds - on that day I shall smile. On that day I shall stride past them, pleats flairing and majestic. On that day time will return to me, and beg its forgiveness. And on that day I shall have won.”
“So I’m not a loser… I’m just playing a longer game than you.”
I say leave them their illusions…
