One more ideal down the toilet

At the age of 16, I was a tall 11th grader in ratty corduroys and over-sized Led Zeppelin shirts, hiding behind a book or a pair of headphones. I was on the swim team, like a goose in a flock of ducks. One evening on an away meet, we sat around the center stage at the mall, waiting for our coach to pick us up from an afternoon of shopping. The boys and girls had polarized on either side of the stage, laughing loudly and jumping off the stairs in a totally-not-flirting kind of way. One of the girls decided to use me as a decoy. She hopped off the stage and came over to where I was reading.

"HAAAAAAALLY! You should wear BONGO jeans."
I stared at her. "What?" 
"BONGO jeans!" She struck a pose, hooking her thumbs into her belt loops and glancing at the boys over my shoulder.
Her mouth was making sounds and emphasizing syllables, but it didn't make any sense to me. "...Bonkasheens?"
She realized she was talking to someone very simple and hesitated for a moment before deciding to forge ahead, prancing in a little circle. "If you wear Bongo jeans, boys will like you!"
She was talking about pants. I was amazed. The boys were watching her now, and I wondered if she would do a display of splits and jazz hands. "But I have a boyfriend." 
"MORE boys will like you!" She gestured like a magician.
"Why would I want more boys to like me?"
"Ugh. You should just WEAR them, they're better than YOUR ugly pants." She stomped back to the stage and sat heavily next to the other girls, peeling her eyes at them. The boys laughed, and she smiled over her shoulder at them, like, I know, right?
 I will never, ever buy Bongo jeans, I said to myself, and went back to reading my book.

So this weekend I found myself buying a pair of Bongo jeans. I am old enough now to have learned that if it fits and makes your butt look higher than your knees, you buy it. Now I would get to find out if the boys would really like me. First, I made sure to activate their magic powers by prancing around like a tart.

I stood at the desk, ready to be likeable. Patrons said hello to me. A homeless man winked, and I got ready to tick it off on my imaginary tally sheet, but then he kept on winking as he asked about the computers, so that might have been a potassium deficiency. Someone said my earrings were scary. And that's all that happened.

Verdict: THE PANTS ARE A LIE. An 18 year mystery put to rest. Breathe easy, Internet.