The Dangers of Vanity, As Told By A Former Poor Kid

When I was up in the Seattle area visiting relatives in 2004, I happened to stop into an Armani Exchange store for the first time in my life. I started looking for a new pair of jeans.

I was making good money at the time. It was sometime around Thanksgiving, and I was set to eclipse over $100,000 in earnings for the first time in my real estate career. For the first time in my life. 

We grew up poor. Not like, "A house full of skinny-kids" poor. Not like, "We didn't have shoes to wear to school" poor. Not even like, "Steve Martin in The Jerk, as Navin Johnson, living in a shanty, playing the spoons with eight to ten other family members clapping and singing in the Deep South" poor. But POOR.

I remember receiving used underwear from Goodwill, at least a couple of times. I think my mother hoped I wouldn't notice, but I was an observant poor kid, if I was anything. When they don't come in the plastic packaging and are already inserted randomly in your underwear drawer, certain questions must be asked.

She also tried to sneak powdered milk in on us, once. ONCE. My dad noticed this one and put the kabosh on that happening ever again. She did what she could with the budget she had for a family of four. I don't blame her for the sneaky stuff.

Oh, and then there was the government cheese. This came in the perfect rectangular skinny box for keeping baseball cards in. Until the kids at school called me and my other poor friend out for having free-cheese baseball card storage. (Sorry, George Brett. Your '86 Topps card probably smelled a little bit funky)

I switched to shoe boxes after this, but that didn't remedy the situation entirely. While our friends were sporting Nike, Reebok, Adidas, and Converse shoes and used those boxes for their cards, me and my fellow hobo friends adorned Pro-Wings, Zips, and Trax. 

Trax! For those of you who had money growing up and got to eat at Red Lobster every Friday, that's the K-Mart house-brand of shoes. Ugh.

We'd shuffle into Skipper's wearing our Trax on Tuesday Discount Shrimp Night and imagine a world where we could dunk a basketball (in junior high) wearing our Nike Airs or Reebok Pumps. I'd think ahead to what surely were destined to be better financial years. Someday.

Ok, it wasn't that bad. I even got my first pair of Reeboks at the end of summer, discounted of course at JC Penney from the usual $49.99 down to $19.99. Even that was a stretch, as I recall. 

Imagine 14 year old me, my pleading eyes, my parent's looking at each other like, "I dunno, one of us might have to sell a kidney for this kid to have Reeboks". Me, emphatically reassuring them that I'd wear them until my funeral. I'd be buried looking like Ronald McDonald.

Ronald McDonald? Oh, I forgot to mention the best part of this shrewd footwear purchase: They were all-red high-tops. Not white, with red accents. RED, with white accents. Check out this picture of these "classics".

In retrospect, I should have thought this through for more than 10 seconds. But they were REEBOK. They were my exact size, with just enough room if my feet grew a little. They had the Union Jack flag. I instantly felt more British and refined, as soon as I tried them on. I asked the sales lady for a spot of tea. Finally, I was about to own a name-brand pair of shoes.

BUT THEY WERE RED. This was in 1988, before shoes came in fashion colors like they do these days. What would I have even matched these up with? My Kool-Aid Man T-shirt? A Santa costume? I wasn't popular enough to be different. That was about to become abundantly clear in the worst way. 

The first day of school came, and it was time to show off my new kicks. We used to peg our pants back in the day. Rolled up our jeans, and folded them over, so people could see our awesome basketball shoes. You were a nerd if you didn't show off your high-tops.

Well, I figured out how to be a nerd even with pegged pants. All you needed was one pair of boxing-glove red Reebok high tops and voila. I was called Ronald McDonald more than once that first day of school. 

I suddenly understood what Will Smith was rapping about in, "Parents Just Don't Understand". You know, where his mom buys him the worst school clothes ever and he gets teased relentlessly? That became my new reality.

I only had myself to blame for this. My parents hadn't wanted to buy them for me. A nice pair of blue-light-special Trax in black or white would have been less damaging to my already suspect 9th grade rep. These shoes guaranteed that my virginity would be safe at least until college.

So as you may have gathered, I had shopping issues as a young adult. I didn't like spending money on what I deemed to be extravagant purchases. Yet, I didn't want to dress like a geek, either. Such a conundrum.

I found my wheelhouse of affordable, somewhat fashionable male style in my mid to later 20s. Which brings us back to the Great Seattle Armani Exchange Purchase of 2004.

I tried the jeans on. They were incredible. A lighter wash, a bit of wear on one of the knees, in a fashionable way. Ever so slight flared legs at the bottom. My butt looked so good, I almost left my wife, in the middle of the store.

"Excuse me, Miss? Does this store have a freight-door in the back room that I can sneak out of? Oh sure, AFTER I pay." 

But I didn't want to spend the money they cost. They were double the price of the most expensive pair of jeans I had ever purchased. $125 samoleans. My soon-to-be ex-wife told me that I should just buy them. That they looked good. That I worked hard and deserved to get myself something nice for once.

I understood all of that. But the poor kid in me from about 15 years prior wasn't feeling good about it. I made him stifle it. I told him there was a bread line around the corner in the mall and that he should go get in it. I was talking myself into this purchase.

Italians love Italian things. We can be a prideful people. ARMANI jeans. It had a nice ring to it. The same type of suits Pat Riley used to wear while coaching Lakers games in the 80s. This memory was not lost on me. Maybe I'd go test drive a Ferrari after we left AE. I felt a premature mid-life crisis starting to develop.

I walked out wearing these awesome jeans. I indeed felt like a new man. They did look good. I walked right into a lady while looking at myself in the mall mirror. Knocked her flat on the ground. 

She looked angry until she was eye-level with the new purchase, blushed, and apologized for her clumsiness. I let her kiss my hand and shooed her off to continue shopping with the rest of the peasants.

I felt so Italian wearing Armani Exchange jeans, I wanted to box somebody for 15 rounds and yell "ADRIAN!" at the very end. Boxing matches only were scheduled for 12 rounds though at this point. No matter. We could go three extra ones in the parking lot after the fight, bare-knuckles. "ADRIAN!"

Upon our return home and wearing the jeans to the office, to dinner, to church, to the gym, and to bed, I decided I should look into a second pair. I was going to wear these out if I didn't give them a rest.

I tried to decide whether I should get them dry-cleaned while still wearing them, or contorting myself enough to fit in the washing machine with them on. Perhaps I'd just run through a car wash without my Chrysler Sebring. (I passed on the Ferrari). I came to my senses and simply ordered a second pair online. Laundry problem solved.

I went with a slightly darker blue wash and giggled at the joy I was certain to find. Lightning COULD strike twice. I told my first lighter pair that he was about to become a big brother, but told him he'd still always be my baby. He wasn't so reassured, but I took him out for ice cream and all was forgiven.

The big day arrived. The tracking on the package said delivery was to be on a Tuesday. I paid extra on shipping for a larger, stronger, faster stork. The bundle of joy was delivered and I ran to my bedroom where the full-length mirror was.

I slowly unwrapped the packaging and cradled Armani the Second. He still had that new baby smell. I felt 10 years younger, as I inhaled the fountain of youth.

I tried them on and quickly turned toward the mirror in our room. Suddenly, I was pained. No, they fit wonderfully. The color was perfect, just as I had seen in the ad. I felt actual, horrible pain. 

Specifically, in my neck. In the instant I had turned toward the mirror to check out my butt. I had just sprained my neck checking out my own ass. Oh snap.

Mad, did it hurt. One of those jobbies where you know you won't be driving your car for a few days. Or if you do, you'll only be able to make left turns. Ouch. I really did it good this time.

Then I laughed. I had just pulled a neck muscle checking out my own butt. In a full-length mirror. Because of new Armani jeans. The poor-kid curse was in full effect. I knew this had been a bad idea, even back in Seattle.

I hurt for almost a week. I was unable to drive for three or four days. I couldn't believe I had sprained my neck. My vanity had caused me to injure myself, from checking out my own ass. 

You know what, though? It was worth it.