Friday, June 15, 2012

Jeff Bean Chaps My Ass

I think I have some cash in here somewhere...
Aw, screw it. You take American Express? No?
Then keep your fucking Girl Scout cookies.
I wrote the other day about needing a new wallet after JB washed my old one. Of course, it's my fault for not taking the wallet out of my pocket. In my defense, I only planned for my pants to be off for maybe ten minutes, twenty tops. But while I invariably get the urge to nap after sex, it seems ex-smokers like to launder.

I'm currently making due with a loaner wallet from JB's sugar-mama closet.

One of JB's closest friends is a seventy-two year old chinese woman. Just one the entourage of post-menopausal groupies who glommed onto JB back when he was an aerobics instructor. (I told him over and over that his shorts were too revealing, but he seemed to like the attention.)

Recently widowed and filthy rich, Violet is constantly showering JB with random gifts she picks up on her travels. As we don't have much storage space to begin with, most of this merchandise goes directly into the sugar-mama closet.

I was surprised to find three wallets in there, still in boxes and all with designer names. While none of them met my exacting standards, only one of them was a bi-fold. As I removed the supple leather from its packaging, I found a tiny price tag tucked inside. $95? I took a closer look.

"Violet does a lot of her shopping in China, does she?" I asked JB.

"I suppose so. Why?"

"I've just never seen a genuine Geoffrey Bean wallet before is all. This would go great with that Rollex."

"Don't touch the watches! Just pick a wallet and get out of there."

It's not a bad wallet per se, trademark infringement and fair labor practices not withstanding. Even though it was the slimmest wallet I could find in the sugar-mama closet, it's still way too large and bulky for my taste. It's uncomfortable to sit on, so I find myself putting it in my desk drawer at work. Invariably, I only remember doing this as I attempt to pay for lunch.

And even after I go back to get it, I can barely see my money down in the bottom of its deep folds. Paying feels like spelunking. If that weren't enough, I feel a little self-conscious about using it in public. Like Geoffrey Beene might see me and create a scene at Starbucks.

So yesterday I spent some time shopping on the Internet for a wallet. Something minimal, yet traditional enough to tell every cashier that I know damn well how old I am. And I think I found one that fits the bill, so to speak. It's called "Slimmy". Judging by the name, I think I might like it. I'll know for sure in three to five business days.

Finally! A wallet that won't make my butt look big.
What's that? Yes, I am aware it's not a magic wallet.

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