Let me introduce you to my very favorite jeans.
They’re quite horrible.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And these wonderful jeans are, sadly, out.