There are very few men who can get away with wearing overalls, and even fewer who can legitimately don a pair of cowboy boots, especially if they’re tucked into jeans or some other pants. The men who get the free pass to wearing either are the farmer and the cowboy, respectively.

With that being said, and to continue my harsh judgments on men’s clothing (women get scrutinized all the time regarding how we look), I’ll continue here by saying that no man should ever sport the skinny jean. I don’t know who came up with this idea, but skinny jeans on men look absolutely ridiculous. (There, I’ve said it.) Tapered pants, slim-fit — I can handle these; a nice sharp suit with a tapered leg is a good look on a man. But these skinny jeans should be banned for men, worldwide.

The skinny jeans are convenient for riding your bike and for tucking into your boots, ladies. So, roll up that (tapered) pant leg, sir! And put on some socks, damn it!

Despite my cries about men wearing a pair of women’s jeans (and slip-on shoes without socks), I was seeing them everywhere: at the skatepark, on campus, at the Apple store, at hipster bars, at Whole Foods, in my nightmares; they don them as they played field polo in a schoolyard in some hipster neighborhood; they had picnics in Cheesman Park; they swarmed art galleries on First Fridays.

My observation of this phenomena goes several years back. I was aghast! I wondered if this was just some hipster fashion fad or if it were to stick around for years to come. I was curious if these brave men actually went to the women’s department and bought a pair of women’s jeans, or if these skinny jeans were now being made for men. What kind of man could be taken seriously in these jeggings? My ex would never wear skinny jeans; one of the traits I loved about him. That, and being able to build a house. He was the kind of guy who could get away with wearing overalls; they’ve got good places to put your hammer and tape measure.

But, at least these skinny-jean-legged men now rode their bikes with ease, right? No more tangled pant leg in the bike chain. Socks were no longer required. Toms shoes for all! (Beard optional.)

There was a time period where I was separated from my husband. We had spent over a year apart (growing and learning from our mistakes) and, gladly, we are back together. During

this time I went on dates (with non-skinny-jean-wearing men), went online to see who’s “out there,” went out with my friends to just be “out there.”

“You gotta get out there.” They’d tell me.

“I don’t want to be out there.” I’d think.

Truth was: I wanted to be home. With my man. Not out there. I had missed him, but until he got his shit together, I couldn’t possibly be with him. I had spent too many years trying to fix things, but there was nothing I could really do, except leave.

But, I digress.

One toasty summer night as I was unlocking my bike to go home after work, two of my much younger co-workers breezed by on their bikes. With their night off, they drunkenly invited me to join them on the Denver Cruiser Ride. This is where you ride your bike with about a hundred people, drink, and see what’s “out there.”

“Here,” the scruffy one said, handing me a bottle of Fireball. We passed the ball of fire to each other as we rode through the streets of Denver and then onto the bike path. The scratchy, cinnamon burn of the beverage eased me into the evening. The drink allowed me to place all judgements aside, not be such a dick, and simply have a good time. I had become so cynical after years not of enjoying life, after too much time spent being caught up in someone else’s bullshit. This was one of the first nights in a while where I felt free. The Fireball buzz was strong. Now, I was really in for it. Now, I was 23 again. Now, I was wearing skinny jeans and a tank top and Toms shoes. I fit right in.

That night after the mass bike ride — a short lived event in my life, by the way, along with the Fireball — my friends and I went back Downtown to drink some beers on the patio at some burrito joint on the 16th Street Mall. People coming and going: drunk, stoned, random homeless people yelling at the moon; others grabbing some late night grub.

One of those grubbers was a redheaded man. He was locked out of the burrito place. Too late, Ginger Boy! We tipped him off and told him to use the exit door. He comes out minutes later with a burrito. Success! Congenial as we were, he decided to sit down, eat his burrito, and make new friends.

Ginger Boy wore skinny jeans like a fat fifth grader: unabashedly and unapologeticly. It was one of the first things I noticed about him. I do like the redheads, but those slim legged denim disaster pants instantly placed him in the “not an option” category. As interesting as he seemed, I just could never get with any guy who paraded around in skinny jeans. Plus, he smoked and was nonstop looking at his phone in between talking and eating his burrito.

There is a limited number of men who have the body type to get away with wearing the skinny jean, like 15 year old boys. These tight-fitting jeans put all the focus onto the lower part of the body of a man past thirty. They make one look top heavy. Skinny jeans amplify the fat around the belly. And our Ginger Boy definitely had his share of beers over the years. He was no young pup; more like a bitch who just had a litter of thirty.

After talking for a good while, discovering that he’s from San Francisco and comes to Denver once a month for work, Ginger Boy asked me if I wanted to check out his corporate apartment. “It’s incredible,” he told me. “The views are awesome, and there’s a hot tub.”

As much as I love hot tubs and red heads in addition to lovely views of the city, I tell him that I can’t go with him. 

Gotta get home to walk the dog.

Need to wash my hair.

Gotta do laundry.

Need to organize my sock drawer.

Plus, I don’t go home with people whom I’ve just met. Just because someone wants to fuck you doesn’t mean you have to fuck them. There are plenty of opportunities; no need for desperation.

Truth was: due to his brand of britches, I just couldn’t bear the thought of making out with this guy.

I wanted to ask, though: don’t you know that those jeans you’re wearing are dangerous? Didn’t you hear about the three musicians stabbed in Sacramento for wearing skinny jeans? (True story: some guy spewed homophobic slurs at a California based band and then proceeded toward them wielding a knife and stabbed the three men.) Don’t you know that you can get your testicles twisted? (Another true story.) Haven’t you heard of the condition called swampass? Wearing tight pants also can lead to urinary tract infections as well as a low sperm count and fungal infections. And, furthermore, you look silly. And don’t forget: you can get stabbed!

As I rode home alone in the moonlight, I thought about that luxury hi-rise where Ginger Boy lived for the week. I wanted to sit in that hot tub. I wanted check out the view. I wanted to be pampered for a night. Yet, I knew that I couldn’t endure the part of the evening when he’d try to get those preposterous pants off his bike-toned legs.

Pleased with my decision, I glided along the bike path with a beer buzz smile. When I got home, there was no hot tub, no nighttime view of Denver, but there was my dignity, and no skinny jeans on the floor.