Last night there was a going away party for Brian and Ashlee. And I don't want to talk about it. One of the guests was Ashlee's best friend Chara. She was wearing jeans that were all torn up and were so cute, and I began to get all nostalgic for my favorite pair of jeans.
When I was about 15 my parents' neighbors divorced. She (we'll call her D) left him, so he was understandably bitter and gathered up all her things and piled them up on the curb for the trash collectors. A friend and I, having no pride whatsoever, went digging through the pile, because there were clothes in there! Used ones! Already broken in! And we were in our thrift store stage anyway. I found and claimed a perfect pair of Levi's that D had left. They were in great shape. They were beautiful, much like the pants in the traveling pants books. Worn enough to be comfortable, but still in one piece. I wore them off and on in high school, and then the knees ripped out, which made them perfect for when I went off to college. They were the best jeans ever. I wore them when I wasn't feeling good, and when it was raining. Chicken soup for the legs. I wore them to night classes with my favorite olive green sweater and my beat-up fake Converse. I wore them until they ripped out halfway up the thigh sometime during my junior year of college, and then I cut them off into daisy dukes and wore them all through my senior year. And then sometime after I graduated they ripped just below the back pocket and became totally indecent, even for wearing to the beach. I hung onto them even for a while after that, because I couldn't bear to give them up.
Finally, one very sad day, I tried them on one last time (they still fit perfectly) and then took them off, folded them once, and dropped them into the trash. They wound up out on the curb for the trash collectors to take. And when I get to heaven I'm asking for them back. But all in one piece, so I can wear them out all over again.
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