In the last month I have punched the expiration on three sets of jeans.  THREE!  These jeans had been with me for a minimum of four years.  The oldest I had bought my first year in the fraternity way back in 1997.  Thank you OSU financial aid.  The most recent was a pair my then-fiancee bought me in Warnambool when I visited for the first time in December 2004.  My first Aussie purchase.

It’s a sad thing to say goodbye to a well worn pair of denim jeans.  But ultimate that day will inevitably arrive and when it comes there is no denying it. Jeans depart our fashion world in one of two ways.  The first is a subtle fade – year after year of glorious service with the slow accumulation of stains, unraveling, broken zippers, little tears and patches.  These add up to a stylized, rugged look.  Then one day you take a look at your jeans and it occurs to you that they are no longer rugged, but ratty.  No longer chic, but old.  It’s like looking at Madonna one day and thinking, “geez, when did she get old lady elbow skin?”

The other way is the dramatic ‘event’.  Something tragic, sudden, and unexpected.  Yep, all three of my jeans suffered this disastrous fate, leaving my wardrobe far too soon.  And they all failed in the same manner.  Mind you, these were different styles, different brands, and different ages.  But inexplicably they all died the same way.  The back area on my right half ripped down the entire inside seam of the butt pocket.  Oh sure, it started as a little mess of white fabric in the top corner of the pocket – but for some reason one time when I bent down – rip!  As in R.I.P.

What the hell is happening?

Apparently my butt and not my entire butt, just the right hemisphere of it, has a knack for destroying denim.  And its a dramatic tear, as well.  Starts out little wear, little wear, little wear – then BAM – total catastrophe.  You know how demoralizing it is to dress up for a date with your wife, stop to pick up the kid’s toys, and then have a Glute Blowout the back of your Levis?

It occured to me that something was wrong.  My right butt parts have the same savagery on linens as the Lou Ferigno.  My ass is the Incredible Hulk.  At this moment in time, I do not have a single pair of blue jeans to my name now … and quite frankly I’m too afraid to buy another pair for fear of my gamma-radiated glute destroyer.

Are those Bugle Boy jeans you’re wearing?  No, they are half-assers, thanks for asking.

Yes, I have put on weight in the last two years.  Nothing crazy, but I’m in the early stages of a daddy pot belly … but just on one half of my ass?  I’ve heard of right-brained and left-brained, but right-assed?  Is it because I eat a lot of tuna?  Does fatty fish affect the right glutus more than the left?  Is it the Omega-3s?  Surely not.  Karma couldn’t be so cruel.

I’ve also analyzed my sitting patterns.  Do I sit more on my left or my right cheek?  When I slide in and out of my car do I favor one or the other?  Could there be a distinct and significant accumulation of abrasion on my right back pocket that I’m not aware of?  Probably not, considering the synthetic fabric of my Umbros have not fused my ass to my car seat in a melted, polymer goo.

I do wear my wallet in my right pocket, perhaps it is the culprit.  But after watching every episode of Mythbusters to air, I consider myself an experienced field scientist.  For that reason, I have to disregard the wallet hypothesis … because I normally wear it in my breast pocket of my jacket and I never war it in my jeans when I drive.  Plus, after some close inspection, I’m seeing a disturbing trend in my slacks as well.

What could it be?

What if it is my lifelong dedication to soccer that is ruining my Wranglers?  Just follow me on this one – I am right-handed and thereby right-legged.  I pass, trap, dribble, and most importantly shoot with my right leg.  Most people that I’ve played soccer with are surprised that my left leg is in fact not a wooden peg leg carefully concealed with a shin guard.

I know for a fact that my right leg is stronger.  Every part of it.  My toes, my calf, my knee, my quad.  Built Ram tough.  The other side … um … not so much.  Let’s consider it the Vespa of body parts.  My left knee is so jacked up with tendonitis, arthritis, strained ligaments, and an inflamed knee cap that even Stephen Hawking wouldn’t accept it as a donor leg.

What if my reliance on my right leg has not only built up my leg muscles, but has created a hemispheric posterior equal to that of Arnold Schwarzenegger.  Not Collateral Damage Ahnold either … I’m talking Raw Deal level.  Could it be that half of my butt deserves an XXL while the other half prefers a Medium?

Am I some mutoid, freak of nature for having too much junk in my trunk, but only on the passenger side?  Is there a way to measure the volume or density of that portion of my body without risking an awkward moment when my wife walks in on me with a roll of measuring tape and a butcher’s meat scale?  Do other athletes also suffer this bizarre form of body dismorphism?  I mean do quarterbacks tear out the sleeves in only their throwing arm?

I am willing to submit myself to scientific study.  It’s for the greater good.  Consider me subject zero.  If my story can in any way help other people and their misshapen hineys from wrecking any more jeans, then I’ll have considered my life worthwhile.

For now I sit and type the final words of this column with one cheek hanging in the wind.