Vintage ad for Levi Strauss
I believe I heard Taps playing this morning as they left my fingertips to go to that old blue jean bin in the sky. My favorites just died. Actually, this is the second pair in six months to go. They gave up the ghost...gone...vamoose! The belt loops had pulled off years ago and the bottoms were frayed, reminiscent of my 70s jeans. They were perfectly faded in all the right spots. Crisp and form fitting, not saggy. And there was that one peephole on the back at the bottom of the pocket—I always forgot it was there until someone would remind me that I had my lime green drawers on.
For some reason, my favorite jeans decided today was the day. I was assuaged by guilt. Was it that Hershey Bar? If only they had split on a seam, I would lovingly mend them. But noooo, a big L shaped rip, right in the middle of the leg.
I frantically searched my stack of jeans to find their successor. After, tugging, squatting, mirror parading, butt checking, laying down to zip up, and a few potty words, I was exhausted. I’ve got the "blues" for sure. I kicked the mountainous pile of jeans and swore to them that they are all going to Goodwill. The sad conclusion, I don't own a favorite pair of jeans. For the first time ever!
I remember my very first pair of favorite jeans. Circa 1975, hip hugger bell bottoms (today's interpretation is "flared legs"). These matched my embroidered blue jean pocketbook that I made out of another pair of jeans. I loved those jeans. They died too, at the knees. I remember the day well. I cut the legs off and made them into a pair of shorts, and voila! My new favorite pair of shorts! I frayed the legs, which were just barely covering the pockets. What a summer. And then, they disappeared! Where did they go? I ransacked the house asking everyone, no help. They’d vanished into thin air. Then late one evening, my Mom asked me to go take some food to our little Chihuahua mixed breed, Bunny. Bunny had a little dog house in the fenced yard near the end of the house. While I called her and scraping her dinner into the bowl, I spotted a remnant of cloth that I recognized hanging out of her house. I pulled it out...My shorts! I was ecstatic. I didn't even care how they got there, though I had a pretty good idea. Onto the back porch I went and straight to the washing machine. Let's see, a couple of cups of this Tide should do it. Wash, rinse, repeat and over again. And there they were. I had them back on again the next day.
But, back to the present. I can't even look towards the garbage can. What was the process? How did those jeans become my favorite jeans? Were they my favorites from the beginning or did I love them into existence? Since they have died at the ripe old age of six, I don't know which came first. But, I'm pretty sure they had me at Hello.
