rip.

rip.

Let me introduce you to my very favorite jeans.

They’re quite horrible.

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They are incredibly thread bare. In fact, every time I wear them, I feel the creases that have been so worn in tear a little more. I’m afraid to move too quickly in them, squat, or bend over, because I’m quite sure they’ll just fall right apart.

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I’ve never had to unbutton or unzip them to take them off because they’re nine sizes too big, and I always have to wear a belt to keep them on.

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And I love them.

So very much do I love them.

They’re like pajama pants. When I want a comfy day, they’re my go-to pair. They’re not for cold weather for all the holes and thinness, but they’ve been like a best friend for years. It’s funny to me how attached I get to the smallest seeming things, but we seem to live in such a throw-away world that I can’t help it. It’s my only little bit of history, like a really good book with yellowed and frayed pages – one you can’t handle very much anymore because it’s held together by wishes and memories.

It’s time to let these go.

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Hank has hated them, because they’ve never fit. But he’s suffered in sorta-silence for long enough. They really are ugly, but I swear to you, I’ll never have another pair that have been this comfy.

I bit the bullet and ordered a pair of raw denim jeans (how Portlandia of me…) yesterday. They’re from a crazy little shop in Tennessee and made completely in America, and there’s a promise with raw denim that the jeans made from it will be yours and yours alone, molded to your movements, your particular ways of sitting, your life; kind of like a years-long art project that just keeps getting better and better.

I’m in.

And these wonderful jeans are, sadly, out.

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RIP.

Wah.

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