Every time I go to Yamashiro's Building Supply I see her; black curly hair, skinny as a rail, but tough as nails. She makes sure my wife approves of the project, that I use my Ace Rewards Card and that I have everything I need for the job before I leave the store. I assume that she could complete any of my projects — blindfolded. I also assume that she has seen my type before: a bit overeager, a tad under-skilled, hoping beyond hope to finish the job without calling in a professional to clean up the mess.

On this particular day, I had the professional with me. My buddy John, carpenter extraordinaire, agreed to help me move a few electrical outlets. Turns out he knows the lady, too. I guess she doesn't only hassle the hapless, but does her best to keep all the men in line, even the pros. What a woman!

As we leave the store, John says that like her, he used to be skinny. "In fact, just last week my wife found my size 34 jeans," he said. "I had them stored neatly on the top shelf of the closet. She found them, brought them down and gave me the 20 questions."

"You have skinny jeans?" I asked.

"Well you never know, one day I may fit into them again."

"Do you have mom jeans too?"

"No, I don't have mom jeans! They're just a few pair of jeans from when I was first married."

"Why were you hiding them?"

"I wasn't hiding them. I had them stored, on the top shelf, in case I needed them later. She wasn't supposed to find them. Heck, I didn't think she could even reach the top shelf."

"So you were hiding them."

"I was not HIDING them! I was saving them."

Now I have heard tales of wives finding things hidden in closets, most of which are inappropriate for print, but this was the first time I had heard about a guy hiding his skinny jeans. I couldn't help but laugh out loud — a little at him and a little at the conversation.

Later that night, after my buddy left, I did what any self-respecting male would do; I checked my closet for skinny jeans. As it turns out, I had a pair, too. Of course I wasn't hiding them, like my buddy John, there were right there on a hanger ... in the corner ... behind the winter coat ... that I have never worn. I slowly took them out and brushed away the cobwebs. With thumb and fingers outstretched, I formed an oval at the waistline. More likely to fit around my head than my waist, I thought. I stripped down to my BVDs and slipped them over my ankles. I was just about to my knees when my wife walked in.

"New jeans?" She asked.

"No. Old. From when we were first married. I was going to throw them out, but before I did, I wanted to see if I could squeeze into them."

"No luck, huh?" She giggled.

"No, not really. Hey, can you help me get out of these things? It feels like someone duct-taped my legs together. I can't feel my toes."

Not a day goes by that I don't add another project to my to-do list. Most are within my skill set, but some are bigger than me. Still others, like my skinny jeans, are much too small to merit attention.

Michael C. DeMattos is on faculty at the University of Hawai'i Myron B. Thompson School of Social Work. Born and raised on the Wai'anae Coast, he now lives in Kane'ohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs and two mice.