Jeans

When we moved to Chisago City, MN, my mother, for whatever reason, always dressed me different then my brother.  I was never allowed to wear jeans like him, always khakis and a button down Ivy League shirt.  I felt that I could get into Yale just for the cloths I wore.  One day in the eighth grade I revolted and after breakfast, snuck back upstairs and took my brothers old ratty jeans he wore around the house and put them on and ran for the bus stop.  Little did I know that I would be setting a trend, albeit 50 some odd years later, with blown out knees and rips across the thighs and without a belt they hung so low I thought I would trip.  It was one of those, “what the fuck is that kid wearing” kind of days.  Needless to say I went back to wearing Khakis’.  Never did make Yale.  Being stupid, I could have been President.