There have been times in my life (nay, years) when I have not owned a single pair of jeans. Not one. Either I couldn't wear them to work (actually, all of my post-collegiate employers have discriminated against the jean)or I didn't want to spend the ridiculous amount that stores charge for cotton or I just didn't find them necessary.
At this point in my wardrobe, I am jeans-rich. As in, I have lost count of the number of jeans in my clothing rotation. That's not counting capri jeans (although I don't know how many pairs of those I own, either), that's only the bonafide, waist-to-ankle jeans.
Since Hubs gave me a pair of beautiful boots for our anniversary this past January (I don't remember how many years we've been married. Wait. If we got married in '97, and it's 2010, that means we're knocking on, what? Fourteen years?) I have worn the jean with gusto. I wear yoga pants or workout capris (that's really a misnomer; I don't work out. They really could
more accurately be called, "run around the house and stop Calamity Jane from breaking my stuff" pants) around the house, but if we go out to dinner, or take the kids somewhere, or meet someone for lunch, I reach for jeans.
As I've said, I have many pairs, but only one that really makes my skirt fly up. They were the perfect color (emphasis on were), the pefect fit, the perfect length. I loved them. They were the jeans that, on that one day of the year when all my jeans were clean and neatly hanging in the closet, were the ones I reached for. They were the jeans that, right out of the dryer, felt great. None of this "wear them for a day and they loosen up enough to feel good" stuff. They were denim perfection, if you will.
Well. A couple weeks ago we were going to a party (don't ask me whose party. I don't remember. Wait, it's coming back to me. No. No, it's not. I have no clue.) and I was hiking myself up to get into Hubs' really tall truck, and I heard the rip of doom. The rip that lets you know in no uncertain terms that your jeans have left their body and gone on to a better place. I reached behind me, and just under my but-tocks (to quote Forrest Gump) was a new ventillation system. Running horizontally. As in, Daisy Duke-style jeans. I am not a fan of the Daisy Duke-style jeans.
I am mourning their loss, even now. So much so that I could not bear to give them the proper send-off that they deserve. Instead, I sadly hung them back in my closet, hoping I can find a way to salvage them. They still have the baggy knees and the folded up hem, just how I liked to wear them with flip flops.
All my other jeans were the same cut and size, but a different fabric, apparently. My other jeans fit perfectly right out of the dryer, but after about an hour of wear, they loosen up so much that I don't have to unbutton or unzip them to take them off. I find myself constantly jerking them up throughout the day, even rolling the waistband, and when I need to use the facilities, I can just pull them down. Kind of like they're elastic-waist jeans, except they're not. It annoys the crud out of me.
So I bought a new pair of jeans last week, a size smaller than the others. The only problem is that I have to do some serious squats and lunges before I feel they're appropriate for public wear. But then they loosen up and are just fine. I haven't actually washed them yet, and am kind of nervous to see what size they'll be after my dryer has its way with them. They are really getting a foothold in the place in my heart reserved for great jeans.
And now it's time.
It's actually past time. I've worn them a few more times than is probably socially acceptable, and they're ready for their first wash.
I'm sitting here, in my too-loose-already jeans, hoping against hope that they'll make it through to the other side just fine.
I don't think I have to ask, my friends, for you to send a few denim-related prayers this way.