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Denim? I’ve Never Even Seen ‘Em!

I have a dilemma. As usual.

My office has encouraged us to participate this Friday in something called ‘National Denim Day’. It’s an event that involves donating money to a worthy cause — curing breast cancer — and wearing blue jeans to work.

(According to the website, it also has something to do with Pierce Brosnan, though what the ex-Bond has to do with healthy boobs and casual pants isn’t entirely clear.

At least he’s posing in his denim, and not with his breasts. There are many bits of Remington Steele I’d prefer were left to the imagination. Or not considered at all, frankly.)

Now, I have no issues with making a monetary donation. And the breast cancer cause is one that I can fully get behind. There have been incidences of breast cancer in my family. And in general, I’m absolutely in favor of a world with more happy, healthy, and — presuming they’re outside my family — scantily-clad breasts. Sign me up on that bandwagon.

“The last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I’m not thinking about their boobs.”

But here’s the thing — for most people, wearing jeans to work this Friday probably represents dressing down from their usual attire. As for me, I’ve been wearing shorts to work for the past four months. Putting on long denim pants would constitute a dressing up. Breasts or no breasts, that hardly seems right.

So, I thought I might wear my shorts, and compensate for my non-compliance in another way. I could double my donation, perhaps, or hand out pink ribbons, or volunteer for duty on the local hospital Mammary-Mobile. Hey, if herding women into a van, squishing their boobs, and taking pictures will further the cause, then I’m here to help. I’m just that kind of stand-up guy.

(It didn’t get me anywhere in high school, but that was different. Most of the time back then, I wasn’t wearing any pants at all.)

I can only find one problem with my plan — the women I work with won’t know anything about the other contributions I’ve made. They’ll see the shorts, note the glaring lack of denim on ‘Denim Day’, and presume that I’ve turned a cold cotton-clad hip to their plight. And I have to live with these boob-toting ladies five days a week, so that simply won’t do. Half of them kick me in the shins when I walk by already.

(And it’s not like the other half don’t kick. They just aim higher. Lately, I’ve been wearing an athletic cup to staff meetings, just in case.)

So I guess I’ll wear those jeans on Friday. The last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I’m not thinking about their boobs.

Wait. That’s not right. The very last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I am thinking about their boobs. Maybe I shouldn’t wear jeans, after all.

Jesus, this is complicated. How much money do I have to donate to just not show up at work on Friday at all? A hundred bucks? A thousand? Five thousand?

Whatever it is, it’s money well spent. Somebody just tell me whose boobs to make the check out to.