I reached into the small change pocket of my brand new jeans and pulled out a small piece of paper that read, "23" - of course meaning inspected by our fastidious friend Number 23. This can only mean that there are, at last count, at least 23 different agents whose task it is to look over my jeans and determine if they are well enough made that they are worth the $9.00 I will pay for them at Walmart. These dedicated individuals have a difficult task. I'm not sure I'm detail-oriented enough to look at several pairs of jeans and discern their worth based on expected manufacturing standards.
I wonder if God has genes inspectors who determine if a newly created human is ready for dispatch. I must make a note to remind myself to look around my skin for the supernal equivalent to "23" stamped somewhere. It's probably not viewable...
I love 23's work. Her commitment to detail is reassuring. I suppose I could rifle through all the jeans on the store shelves to find only those products that have passed her scrutiny - just to make sure I'm getting a quality pair of $9 jeans.
Do you think on dyslexic days she goes by the alias "32"? It is conceivable that she may feel "permissive" and let a few things slide. Perhaps she has a couple of different numbers that she uses depending on her mood. She unpredictable that way.
I can almost hear the customer service representative on the other end of a jean quality complaint telephone call: "OK, sir, now slip your finger into the change pocket of your jeans - you aren't wearing them now, are you?!? - and locate the inspector's number...now read me that number so we know who is to blame for this unfortunate stitching incident."
It isn't that I'm obsessed with 23 - I like her for her mind, not her number.
1 comment:
Why do you assume 23 is a girl?
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