This is a new essay, not included in the book. Y'all have been so supportive, I thought I'd share it here…plus some of you probably have memories of Toughskins, too.
Our Sam's shopping list has a few permanent items. These are the things we figure we need to stock up on each and every visit - avocados, hamburger meat, chicken strips, tortillas, and boys' jeans size 14.
If you don't consider jeans a consumable good, I would have agreed a decade ago. Reality has convinced me otherwise, at least in regards to the ongoing battle of keeping my son in britches.
On my last visit to Sam's, boy jeans were on clearance, and that had me doing an impromptu economic analysis of how many pairs to get. This required some higher-level math with multiple variables - current growth rate, days until spring, inventory hedging, and the statistical probability of making it through the summer with just one pair if we saved them only for church use.
Contemplating the perplexities involved, I did what is more typical in my decision-making process. I shrugged, bought two pairs, and hoped for the best.
Still, the thoughts about jeans lingered for a good while afterwards. I thought back to when I was Alex's age. Late August would roll around, prompting back-to-school shopping. That meant a trip to Amarillo, which I was always excited for, but it came with the cost of trying on clothes, which makes me wince to this very day.
And jeans were the worst of clothes to try on.
As a boy in the 1970s, new jeans meant a stop at Sears and getting their Toughskins brand. If you have worn a pair, your skin is already crawling at the mention of the name. If Toughskins are unknown to you, say a special word of thanks for your great fortune in avoiding them.
I will take a moment to explain.
The Toughskins selling point was telling mothers that "children will outgrow them before wearing them out". They were constructed of an unholy trinity of Dacron polyester, Dupont nylon, and cotton. I'm no textile engineer, but experience tells me the polyester and nylon's job was to make the jeans so uncomfortable that no kid would want to wear them. You can't wear out something that doesn't get worn.
And the cotton? They probably just threw a little in there to give some small glimmer of hope that, some faraway day, and a million washes later, the jeans may soften a little.
When I say these jeans were stiff, you are going to have to extend the limits of your imagination as far as possible to understand. I was going to write "stretch the limits of your imagination", but there was absolutely no stretch involved. None. Just stiff, itchy, rough pants. I'm fairly certain they all hung from hangers because they were impossible to fold.
Now with that imagery in mind, contemplate the state of a 12 year old boys legs at the tail end of summer. Skinned up, bug-bitten, bruised, and at least mildly sunburned, our legs wanted nothing on them, needed minor medical care, and dreaded what they were about to do…try on Toughskins.
I would plead with my mom to try another brand. She would point out the reinforced knees to "protect me". Only as an adult did I realize the reinforced knees were not, in fact, protecting me. They were protecting the jeans from my knees.
The only thing the reinforced sandpaper-like material did for my knees was keep them exfoliated. My legs have a band from just above to just below my knees that can't grow hair. Although in fairness, it might not be from being rubbed raw, but could be from polyester and nylon residue.
The coup de grace was upon trying them on, they never fit. Mom would consider that for a half second and say, "You'll grow into them." In other words, she shrugged and hoped for the best, too.
I met the other end of the jeans spectrum at a textile show in Barcelona, Spain. The event was massive, and I could list some stats, but all of that is beside the point. Just trust me. It was huge.
As I wandered from one exhibitor booth to another, I tried to make sense of all the spinning, knitting, cutting, and sewing machinery on display. So much of it was new to me that often it took a while to make sense of what was going on. Some German manufacturers had set up full working production lines.
Occasionally, I would need a mental break, and I would go visit one of the Italian manufacturers. They brought no equipment, just comfortable tables and bottles of wine. The show was a great place to appreciate the expressions of different cultures.
Amongst this flood of wonders and technology, there was one particular machine that made instant sense to me. It was a clear, "Oh! That's how they do that!" moment. The machine was for distressing jeans, which sounds more technical than "we are going to tear up your new jeans some before you buy them".
A rotating carousel had several pairs of inflatable legs hanging from it. As the stations would rotate, a worker would slip a pair of jeans over the deflated legs. As it moved forward, the legs would inflate, simulating someone wearing the jeans, and it would be positioned in front of a laser.
The programmed laser created frays, holes, slashes, and rips in precise locations on the jeans. The legs could spin, making it possible to distress both the front and the back. At the next station, the legs deflated, and a worker pulled the pants off the machine. Pair after pair left the machine with the exact same distress pattern as the one before it.
I'll confess my first thought while watching this process was not one of wonder. I watched the lady whose job it was to dress and undress the machine's legs over and over again, and I had flashbacks to having to pull on new Toughskins. That trauma is long-lasting, and her job did not look appealing.
But the next thought was that it suddenly made sense to me why distressed jeans cost more than their intact, more utilitarian counterparts. It takes a lot of machinery and labor to create these brand-new, broken-in jeans.
I'm glad that much made sense to me, because the rest of it is still perplexing. Don't get me wrong. I love a well broken in pair of jeans. A few holes here, a rip there, a mystery stain or two. Not only are those jeans comfortable, but they also have a story to tell.
I remember being in Argentina in the 1990s. I was helping commission a new cotton gin, and things hadn't been going as quickly as I wanted. My equipment was ready, but it couldn't run until the rest of the gin was done.
I wasn't supposed to work on equipment we didn't build, but my choices were to sit around and wait or lend a hand so we could get up and running faster. I chose to bend the rules and pitch in.
I found myself 15 feet up in the air, legs wrapped around a huge hydraulic cylinder, and hands wiring up components for a bale press. Somewhere along the way, my jeans had gotten a rip in a rear pocket, and scaling up and down the press had made a progressively bigger hole.
Now the gin being built was a big deal for the area, and it was a point of pride for the new owners that they had international help in building it. It was such a big deal that they had contacted their local news station to come out and film a story.
Of course, I didn't know that while I was perched up in the air, hoping I didn't get in trouble for doing work I was not supposed to be doing. I heard a whistle, and I looked down to see a camera filming me. One of the new gin owners was smiling and waving at me.
Not only was my unauthorized work being documented, but the camera angle was perfectly positioned to see my rear dangling over the edge of what I was sitting on, with a rip that would have exposed a full half of my buttocks had I not been wearing the plaid boxer underwear that was in style at the time.
Thankfully, this was pre-YouTube days, or I would have returned to the home office with a screenshot of my ass hanging out attached to my final paycheck.
Not every rip and tear ends up being so distinctly memorable, but each one has some kind of story behind it. Something funny, something accomplished, a lesson learned, or just testimony to having expended effort. I contend the holes that get there honestly have the kind of stories worth collecting.
The number of jeans it takes to keep Alex clothed is like many other things in life. I can easily slip into fussing about such things. But if I take the time to contemplate them, it doesn't take long to find reasons for gratitude.
I'm thankful I have not had to resort to outfitting Alex in Toughskins. I'm equally as glad he isn't asking for laser-distressed jeans with distressing price tags. Now, when I look at those ripped jeans cycling through the laundry room, I'll shake my head less and smile a little more, thinking about the stories that go along with the holes.
And when I see how much we have spent on jeans in the last year, I vow to remember what the great Elmer Kelton wrote, "A boy doesn't get to be a man with clean britches on".
With that in mind, maybe the goal for next year should be to spend even more on replacing worn-out jeans. Those stories and lessons are priceless after all.
Our Sam's shopping list has a few permanent items. These are the things we figure we need to stock up on each and every visit - avocados, hamburger meat, chicken strips, tortillas, and boys' jeans size 14.
If you don't consider jeans a consumable good, I would have agreed a decade ago. Reality has convinced me otherwise, at least in regards to the ongoing battle of keeping my son in britches.
On my last visit to Sam's, boy jeans were on clearance, and that had me doing an impromptu economic analysis of how many pairs to get. This required some higher-level math with multiple variables - current growth rate, days until spring, inventory hedging, and the statistical probability of making it through the summer with just one pair if we saved them only for church use.
Contemplating the perplexities involved, I did what is more typical in my decision-making process. I shrugged, bought two pairs, and hoped for the best.
Still, the thoughts about jeans lingered for a good while afterwards. I thought back to when I was Alex's age. Late August would roll around, prompting back-to-school shopping. That meant a trip to Amarillo, which I was always excited for, but it came with the cost of trying on clothes, which makes me wince to this very day.
And jeans were the worst of clothes to try on.
As a boy in the 1970s, new jeans meant a stop at Sears and getting their Toughskins brand. If you have worn a pair, your skin is already crawling at the mention of the name. If Toughskins are unknown to you, say a special word of thanks for your great fortune in avoiding them.
I will take a moment to explain.
The Toughskins selling point was telling mothers that "children will outgrow them before wearing them out". They were constructed of an unholy trinity of Dacron polyester, Dupont nylon, and cotton. I'm no textile engineer, but experience tells me the polyester and nylon's job was to make the jeans so uncomfortable that no kid would want to wear them. You can't wear out something that doesn't get worn.
And the cotton? They probably just threw a little in there to give some small glimmer of hope that, some faraway day, and a million washes later, the jeans may soften a little.
When I say these jeans were stiff, you are going to have to extend the limits of your imagination as far as possible to understand. I was going to write "stretch the limits of your imagination", but there was absolutely no stretch involved. None. Just stiff, itchy, rough pants. I'm fairly certain they all hung from hangers because they were impossible to fold.
Now with that imagery in mind, contemplate the state of a 12 year old boys legs at the tail end of summer. Skinned up, bug-bitten, bruised, and at least mildly sunburned, our legs wanted nothing on them, needed minor medical care, and dreaded what they were about to do…try on Toughskins.
I would plead with my mom to try another brand. She would point out the reinforced knees to "protect me". Only as an adult did I realize the reinforced knees were not, in fact, protecting me. They were protecting the jeans from my knees.
The only thing the reinforced sandpaper-like material did for my knees was keep them exfoliated. My legs have a band from just above to just below my knees that can't grow hair. Although in fairness, it might not be from being rubbed raw, but could be from polyester and nylon residue.
The coup de grace was upon trying them on, they never fit. Mom would consider that for a half second and say, "You'll grow into them." In other words, she shrugged and hoped for the best, too.
I met the other end of the jeans spectrum at a textile show in Barcelona, Spain. The event was massive, and I could list some stats, but all of that is beside the point. Just trust me. It was huge.
As I wandered from one exhibitor booth to another, I tried to make sense of all the spinning, knitting, cutting, and sewing machinery on display. So much of it was new to me that often it took a while to make sense of what was going on. Some German manufacturers had set up full working production lines.
Occasionally, I would need a mental break, and I would go visit one of the Italian manufacturers. They brought no equipment, just comfortable tables and bottles of wine. The show was a great place to appreciate the expressions of different cultures.
Amongst this flood of wonders and technology, there was one particular machine that made instant sense to me. It was a clear, "Oh! That's how they do that!" moment. The machine was for distressing jeans, which sounds more technical than "we are going to tear up your new jeans some before you buy them".
A rotating carousel had several pairs of inflatable legs hanging from it. As the stations would rotate, a worker would slip a pair of jeans over the deflated legs. As it moved forward, the legs would inflate, simulating someone wearing the jeans, and it would be positioned in front of a laser.
The programmed laser created frays, holes, slashes, and rips in precise locations on the jeans. The legs could spin, making it possible to distress both the front and the back. At the next station, the legs deflated, and a worker pulled the pants off the machine. Pair after pair left the machine with the exact same distress pattern as the one before it.
I'll confess my first thought while watching this process was not one of wonder. I watched the lady whose job it was to dress and undress the machine's legs over and over again, and I had flashbacks to having to pull on new Toughskins. That trauma is long-lasting, and her job did not look appealing.
But the next thought was that it suddenly made sense to me why distressed jeans cost more than their intact, more utilitarian counterparts. It takes a lot of machinery and labor to create these brand-new, broken-in jeans.
I'm glad that much made sense to me, because the rest of it is still perplexing. Don't get me wrong. I love a well broken in pair of jeans. A few holes here, a rip there, a mystery stain or two. Not only are those jeans comfortable, but they also have a story to tell.
I remember being in Argentina in the 1990s. I was helping commission a new cotton gin, and things hadn't been going as quickly as I wanted. My equipment was ready, but it couldn't run until the rest of the gin was done.
I wasn't supposed to work on equipment we didn't build, but my choices were to sit around and wait or lend a hand so we could get up and running faster. I chose to bend the rules and pitch in.
I found myself 15 feet up in the air, legs wrapped around a huge hydraulic cylinder, and hands wiring up components for a bale press. Somewhere along the way, my jeans had gotten a rip in a rear pocket, and scaling up and down the press had made a progressively bigger hole.
Now the gin being built was a big deal for the area, and it was a point of pride for the new owners that they had international help in building it. It was such a big deal that they had contacted their local news station to come out and film a story.
Of course, I didn't know that while I was perched up in the air, hoping I didn't get in trouble for doing work I was not supposed to be doing. I heard a whistle, and I looked down to see a camera filming me. One of the new gin owners was smiling and waving at me.
Not only was my unauthorized work being documented, but the camera angle was perfectly positioned to see my rear dangling over the edge of what I was sitting on, with a rip that would have exposed a full half of my buttocks had I not been wearing the plaid boxer underwear that was in style at the time.
Thankfully, this was pre-YouTube days, or I would have returned to the home office with a screenshot of my ass hanging out attached to my final paycheck.
Not every rip and tear ends up being so distinctly memorable, but each one has some kind of story behind it. Something funny, something accomplished, a lesson learned, or just testimony to having expended effort. I contend the holes that get there honestly have the kind of stories worth collecting.
The number of jeans it takes to keep Alex clothed is like many other things in life. I can easily slip into fussing about such things. But if I take the time to contemplate them, it doesn't take long to find reasons for gratitude.
I'm thankful I have not had to resort to outfitting Alex in Toughskins. I'm equally as glad he isn't asking for laser-distressed jeans with distressing price tags. Now, when I look at those ripped jeans cycling through the laundry room, I'll shake my head less and smile a little more, thinking about the stories that go along with the holes.
And when I see how much we have spent on jeans in the last year, I vow to remember what the great Elmer Kelton wrote, "A boy doesn't get to be a man with clean britches on".
With that in mind, maybe the goal for next year should be to spend even more on replacing worn-out jeans. Those stories and lessons are priceless after all.
