Long before Naomi beat her maid for them, my pair of Chip + Pepper jeans were perfect. They plumped my non-existant butt, pulled out my cigarette legs, and even when they were new, they already looked like I’d slept in them – and made me glow like I’d slept with someone else.
One night I wore them to a party, and it poured. The street was too slick and I slipped and I slid, face down, five inches. My jean knee spit open and so did my skin – I sprinted to Duane Reade and peroxided myself in the aisle. The cashier thought I was a junkie, but I decided that meant I was thin and kept going.
At the party I dried off, and drank up, and editors said I was cute and my knee stopped stinging. Then there was Mandy Moore, and when I said hi, she said, “your jeans are awesome; I love that designers rip them up now!” And I grinned back and shrugged, and the next day the blood came out in the laundry.
[WILLIE GARSON - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
