The jeans I wore this weekend I’ve had for several months now. But I pulled something out of the back pocket that I did not know was there. It wasn’t a big deal. It’s not as though I reached in and found a $20 bill, though that would have been awesome. No, it was a tiny sticker with the number 16 on it.
As a kid, I found those stickers on my clothes quite often. Dad explained that the number represents the person who inspected the clothes to make sure that particular article of clothing was acceptable for consumption.
So I’d like to say thank you to Sixteen. I know that’s not a proper name, but I probably can’t properly pronounce your proper name properly.Thank you, Sixteen. You made sure my jeans were safe for me to wear. I’m not sure how they could be unsafe. Then again, I don’t really know much about Vietnam, where my pants were made. Maybe some jeans contain broken glass in the pockets. Maybe the denim is infused with SARS. But you, Sixteen, have guaranteed that my jeans are okay.
Not like Eleven, who inspected my khakis. Eleven left a hole in my right pocket. Not cool, Eleven. Not cool.