Those creases were so sharp they could almost cut you. We wouldn’t leave the house without them, that stiff, crisp line right down the front of our jeans. Right out of the laundry and hot off the press, that is how it had to be. The older the jeans, the lighter the crease. We may not have always had time to shower, and make up in our day was so paired down, it could be done on the move if need be: black eyeliner heated over a lighter-flame and poked in between our lids and quick left and right motion, swipe of the finger across grey eyeshadow and onto our lids, two quick strokes with the blush-brush, and tinted lip-gloss. Voila. Ok, sometimes there was that god-awful zit that needed coverup and powder, but we had the whole procedure trimmed down to a Formula 1 pit-stop. But the pants? There was no shortcut for the crease and no occasion when it wasn’t mandatory. I couldn’t tell you if it was an ‘80’s thing or just a DC ghetto thing, but it was a thing.

Until it wasn’t anymore. Eventually I traded in my creased jeans for mini skirts, or hippy skirts, or cut offs, or just creaseless jeans.

What did we think those creases would give us? What did we think would happen if we were caught without one? Did we think we could validate our right to exist in this world, add more value to our net worth, or would somehow form deep and meaningful connections only when we had a crease in our pants? How quickly and easily we women are fooled out of our birthright. Through the years I have traded it away for so many stupid and inconsequential things, but none so absurd as when my best friend and I handed it over for an iron.