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ScruplesSeptember 15, 2005 Yesterday I brought an armload of catalogues, magazines, and other stuff in from Uhura Mazda's cab; that's where I toss everything from my mailbox (the stuff that doesn't go directly into the recycle bins and trash barrel thoughtfully provided by the West Tisbury post office -- and while we're at it, why do so many people throw their junk and other nonrecyclable mail in with the newspapers and catalogues?) until I've got space cleared for it, time to deal with it, or money to pay for it. The pile is rather daunting but not too precarious, so last night I picked two catalogues off the top to skim through during a work break. Levenger took about 15 seconds: I don't need any more fountain pens, and when I do there's one I'm drooling over in the Fahrney's catalogue. L.L. Bean's fall "clothes for women" held my interest. I buy my jeans from Lands' End -- the fit is always perfect, and they wear well, which is important when you live, ride, and work in the things seven or eight months of the year -- but I also love brown jeans, which seem to appear and disappear in multi-year cycles. My last pair has been cutoffs for at least two years now, so I've been scanning whatever catalogues catch my eye with brown jeans in mind. Fall is a good time for brown. On page 7 I screeched to a halt. "Boyfriend Jeans"? Boyfriend Jeans? Someone had to be kidding. "Now you don't have to wait years for jeans with that comfortable broken-in-feel. . . . Modeled after a pair you might have borrowed from an old boyfriend, they have classic five-pocket styling and a comfortable fit." Never mind that I've never found a comfortable fit in a pair of men's pants, or in "unisex" (hah!) pants either; if they fit at the hips, the waist stands out two inches from mine on each side, and if the waist size is right, I can't get them over my butt. Boyfriend Jeans? The marketing department must have been working overtime on that one. True, I remember a time when well-made women's jeans with enough pockets -- women's work clothes in general -- were hard to find, and girls and women used to pilfer flannel shirts, jeans, and other articles of clothing from their brothers, fathers, husbands, and boyfriends, but it's been a while. Who is the marketing department trying to appeal to? I have this sneaking, cynical suspicion that it's women who desperately wish they had a boyfriend to mooch jeans from. Maybe I will drop the marketeers a note: "How about adding '. . . or girlfriend' to your copy, or maybe change it to 'might have borrowed from your husband if he wasn't so portly'?" A few pages on, I stalled at "Forward-Seamed Pants." Huh? I read on. "Designed with forward seams to flatter all shapes and sizes . . ." Uh-oh. A classic euphemism for "designed to make you look less fat." I slid past the "hint of spandex" -- not promising, but could go either way -- and finally found "Forward seams down the front visually lengthen legs for a long, lean look." I couldn't tell from the photo exactly what "forward seams" are, or how they visually achieve the same effect as fun-house mirrors or the inquisitor's rack, but I knew they weren't for me. My legs are long enough to reach the ground and steady enough to lean on fenceposts, pickup beds, and barn walls. Don't need no forward seams. I tossed the catalogue into the recycle box. Fortunately there were no brown jeans in it, so I'm not tempted to stifle my scruples and order right away from a company pushing "Boyfriend Jeans" and "Forward-Seamed Pants."
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