This morning, being the obviously very important morning that it was, I decided to wear "my favorite jeans." The slightly stretchy, perfect-length-with-boots, perfectly washer-faded jeans. I bought them on my birthday in 2003, wore them for a week, and temporarily retired them from 2004-2006. Why hide away the perfect pair of jeans? Funny you should ask.

During my senior year of college, Ross and I took a "Jewish Culture" class, which required that we attend one Jewish Culture seminar outside of class. The night of the seminar, on our way back to my truck, we decided to hop a 4-5 foot chain link fence, instead of walking about 30 yards to get around it. Ross, man of raw athleticism that he is, bounded over the fence with no problem. Once he was over, I started to try to climb up it, rather than jump up and over. I tried to give up and walk around a few times, but Ross wouldn't have it. He gave me some advice: Just grab the fence, push yourself up, and throw your legs over.

Well, I did. And ripped a huge hole in the knee of my brand-new, slightly stretchy, perfect-length-with-boots, perfectly-faded jeans. I went home, tried to sew them, gave up hope, and put them in a pile with the other misfit jeans that either shrunk or went way out of style (ala big flares and tapered legs).

But today I wear the now-ripped, slightly stretchy, perfect-length-with-boots, perfectly-washer-faded jeans, confident in my "distressed jeans" look that high school girls would pay $100 for.

So Ross, thanks for making me so trendy, and sorry for being so mad at you that day. Please move to State College.