“I have no idea how to get my ass grabbed by italian men”

I find that every time I overhear someone talk about looking over their shoulder for a double take I’m straining my muscles more than what is recommended. It’s a weird sort of half assed 45 degree turn, with a subtle glance, but they all add up to several 360s. Get the drift? I do this a lot. Sometimes, I consider taking notes.

As for my own voyeurism…it’s  like this lady, coming out of the pool. Only nowhere near as dramatic or intriguing, mainly because I only pretend to speak/understand French. I just can’t fucking breathe.

Good God do I wish more things in my life (and by that I mostly mean ‘most things about me’) were in French; thus intrinsically propelling everything upward on the totem pole of “gurl-lemme- hit- dat”.

I mean, being home is great after not having anything spicy for a month, but Christ do some of these people need to get into a European pair of jeans… you can take that as a metaphor if you like. In fact, I think I’d prefer it if you did.

If you’re anything like me you’ll observe that those jeans provide for a precise sense of harmonious aesthetics while also causing a rather imprecise manner of  pursuit. One the one hand, you don’t know if this is due to some  impeccably tailored pants or if it’s actually the ass of a Greek god neatly placed in denim. Never have jeans looked so good. Seriously, they’re faultless for the most part because you have to deal with the fact that you might very well just be stuck wherever you are, checking out a pair of pants on someone,knowing full well that you too can go buy a pair of magic ass jeans. Genius design.

Best part is, one is not immediately relegated into the same category as that fucking Apple Bottom Jean clad demographic of  freshmen girls that had one  underage experience while listening to hip-hop. You can forget about that flurry of drunken anecdotes about that one girl in your  dorm that always wore her fuzzy boots [which we all know were fucking shit knock-offs, you weren’t fooling anybody Kimberly*] to parties in the inappropriately hot summer accompanied by her less attractive, cake faced friends who thought they were “hawt”.

The pursuit of the best jeans is a well documented cultural phenomena. Individuals who consider themselves anywhere from 5-167%* fashion conscious, or who grew up not in the Bible belt all know this as fact. Some maybe even fell this an ounce of religious zeal. Who amongst these would seriously admit to not having that one, special, spiffy pair, that hug you so kindly they could be spanx? Everyone has their pair of “booty jeans”, relaxed jeans, art jeans, concert jeans, lucky jeans, imagonnagetlucky jeans, the list can go on. My abuse Levi’s ‘curvy cut low rise’ has reached the extent to which my friend refers to them as Mom jeans and occasionally  asked where my toddler’s whereabouts may be. It’s either that  or me realizing that my ass probably looks like 19996 in those pants.

The thing is, they are also my lucky jeans. Not once have I had a bad experience in those pants, despite the critics. Why should it only be one brand, as in the case of Apple Bottoms, that we as consumers must assume will be the pants to end all pants? Why must it be one particular breed that is designated to (respectively) “own” your ass?  Refusing to shell out that much for a pair of jeans means that I will go the extra hour looking around shops for that unicorn of jeans; a perfect pair truly is a mythical creature of unprecedented proportions after all. Call me a cheap ass because that is exactly what I am.

This decided quest doesn’t mean that I, like many other tight pocketed, hard working students by day and waitresses by night aren’t informed about the hierarchy of needs that dominates our shopping. For the most part, one could easily say that in most developed, consumer based capitalist economies those consumers don’t have to tell anyone that Maslow was hugely uninformed/idealistic about common everyday conspicuous consumption and other fancy terms associated with Marx’s hegemonic superstructure in reltion to how we like to buy shit for really banal reasons. Every stereotype of a teenage girl derives from this. To “survive” you must buy; “I shop, therefore I am”, yattah, yattah.  Survival then garuntees consumers with saftey needs, psychological needs, self actualization, and finally peak experiences.

The  mechanics of consumption are designed so that the advertising exploits our fear of the inner workings of high school social dynamics to the degree that all of these needs become one huge bundle that could easily be taken care of with a few outfits that show off how much money you may have, your taste (which is determined by your social status, which is directly connected to how much money you may have), and your interests, habits, etc. (which are all determined by how much money you may have).

So why would you pay so much for something for all of this baggage you probably learned in a theory class when all you wanted to begin with was for someone to say “Hey…I really like those pants”?

Simple: if your ass looks fine, it’s probably connected to how much money you may have. Or not. But it will most likely get grabbed. Peak experience achieved.

I hope that none of this is truth.

*I’m just assuming this is a nice ball park number that sounded relatively common sensical.

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