Andrew Boechler
Opinions Writer

This comes about five years too late, but I got shivers today while thinking about what a nightmare jean shopping was when I was a teenager.

This tradition holds a special place as one of my most bittersweet adolescent memories. Sweet because I don’t think I have ever owned more than two pairs of jeans at once, so getting new clothes is always exciting for me. Bitter for reasons soon to be explained. Here’s the situation.

I’m 15 years old, and my loving mother decides it’s time for me to buy some new pants. So we jump in the ’03 Dodge Caravan, me with my learner’s license in tow, and I already feel tremendously uncool. Not only am I driving a minivan, but I’m cruising around with Mom.

I already know what you’re thinking: I should have just been happy that my mom cared enough to take me shopping in the first place. I beg of you, try to remember being 15, when everything that cast you in an uncool light seemed detrimental. God help me if I attempted to add some flavour to the situation by hanging an arm out the window, lest I be doused with a healthy lecture on the importance of ten-and-two (these lectures have still managed to find me in my 20s).

By the time I was 15, my mom had learned that I tended to be quite absent-minded. An incident involving me leaving an expensive pair of jeans in a park after a soccer game has steered her away from the name brand stores. I wasn’t complaining. I didn’t deserve high-end clothes. (Who loses a pair of jeans? Jeans are quite possibly the hardest article of clothing for one to lose.) We enter the store. Already uneasy at the thought of being spotted in a clothing store with my mom, I decide to make this quick and immediately seek out the men’s jeans.

I grab a couple pairs that look like they might fit. I am escorted to a change room by an attractive girl perhaps a few years older than me, who then busies herself folding clothes.

I slip out of my old comfortable jeans and into the crisp new pair. I like how they look. I relay this information over the door to my mom. She wants to see for herself. I open the door. Mom is nowhere to be seen.

I stand there nervously for a minute or two. Mom reappears. She says she likes the way they look. Excellent, so do I. I figure this is it; we’re going to pay and quietly leave. Here’s the kicker, and no matter how many times I have shopped for jeans with my mom, I have yet to avoid it.

Mom thinks she needs to check the waist. I tell her the waist is fine. She insists and lifts my shirt up just as Attractive Employee Girl comes to check on us. The following dialogue from Mom may or may not be word-for-word, but I will try and relay it as accurately as I can.

Mom: “How’s the waist? Is there enough room in the waist? What do you think, Attractive Employee Girl? I think there might be a bit too much room in the waist. He hasn’t quite filled out yet. We are thinking he’s just a late bloomer. Do we need a third opinion? Hey, Hot Girl at the Counter, come over here and tell me what you think about the waist while I hook my finger in there and demonstrate how much room there is. Wait, you look familiar. Do you go to my son’s high school? Oh how wonderful, now you two can say hi to each other in the hallways. You’ll remember my son because of his slender waist.”

I’m probably being unfair to my mom. As far as moms go, I would say she’s one of the cooler ones. It probably wasn’t that bad. But when you’re 15, everything is a big deal. With age comes the ability to laugh the little things off. I’m happy I will never be 15 again.