In the Jeans

A prisoner of winter and freezing temperatures, I take to cleaning out the closets for physical activity. Every time I engage in this effort, I ask myself, “Why am I still holding onto this stuff?” Then I toss out .01% and congratulate myself.  Despite the thousands of times I have been through this effort, I manage to convince myself that what I am discarding is “enough for now.”  I tell myself that I might “need” the remaining stuff “someday.”  The fact that I am 68 years old is leaving me with less and less “somedays,” but I ignore the math, and then I congratulate myself on being an optimist, a personality trait for which no one who knows me ever gives me enough credit.

In my wardrobe closet there is a row of shoes that I haven’t worn in years.  I need a carbon dating system to recall the years of purchase.  There are some jeans in there that I purchased in 2010 and haven’t worn much since.  For some reason, I keep these items “just in case.”  In case of what I wonder as I stare them down for the millionth time.  Maybe in case the daily news isn’t torture enough.

Working people seem to love their blue jeans. They can’t wait for a jeans day at work.  Jeans symbolize down time, me time, free time.  Somehow wearing jeans to work can make work seem like, well, not work, like folks chose to come in and hang out on their own time.  A Friday jeans day and you’ve got a long weekend.

Not me.  I’ve never had that kind of relationship with jeans.  Somehow they never seem to feel quite right despite so many style options. And when I say “quite right,” I mean wearable.  And does anyone just slip into a pair of jeans anymore?  Seems more like a wrestling match thanks to both style and spandex.  I guess my mother’s critique of clothes worn too tight stuck with me: “Those clothes look painted on” or “they look like a stuffed sausage in that outfit.”  Thankfully, my mother did not live to see jeggings.  It would have killed her or caused her to go blind. 

Allegedly, jeans “go with everything.”  You can pair them with high heels or strappy sandals, blazers and silk blouses, expensive jewelry. Maybe.  If you are the size of a Barbie doll.  But my Barbie never wore jeans, and I always loved her. And my other idol, Nancy Drew was never described as wearing jeans.  Instead, she slipped into a speedy roadster for a life of adventure.  Take that Levi!

Perhaps I just didn’t get the gene for jeans.  I didn’t get the gene for high fashion either.  Karl Lagerfeld, the famous fashion icon, said “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat.  You lost control of your life, so you bought some sweatpants.”  It hurts to admit it, but yes, that’s me.  I guess I just gave up too soon—sometime in childhood I must have thought haute couture was the French pastry responsible for making jeans too tight. 

If I am ever convicted of a crime, I won’t need prison.  Put me in a pair of jeans and call it solitary confinement.  I won’t be able to move, eat, or breathe.  In addition, I will have the mental torture of thinking of nothing more than how miserable I am.  The authorities won’t have to worry about me causing a prison brawl.  All I will be able to do is roll with the punches.  Maybe the Geneva Convention prohibits prisoners from wearing jeans and that’s why they get the comfy orange jumpsuits.

The only thing I can say in favor of jeans is that the holes, shredded fabric, and faded spots do hide a lot of laundry failures and mistakes, but that’s not me either.  I am a pro at laundry.  It has been my life’s work.  Thank you very much.

And yet, here I am, standing in the closet holding onto the jeans just in case “someday” I am an undefeated, tall, thin, high-fashion model.  It could happen…

I save the shoes for another day.