My jeans should be willed to the Smithsonian, they’re that old and tattered…sewn, stitched, patched, the original denim humbly peeking through.
If they could only talk, the tales they could tell.
We’ve been through a lot together, well traveled, zipped on and off in choice hotels, on lover’s couches, draped drowsily over a chair.
I remember once leaving them behind after a break-up, the man in question mailing them back UPS. It might have been the nicest thing he ever did, returning them, since I’d be lost without their familiar feel.
The cotton is so soft from how many washings, a few hundred at least?
A tailor I’d bring them to, one day refused to fix them again, said I couldn’t even make proper napkins out of them.
I recall getting mad, calling him a snob, and he was, being the tailor to the stars, which was why I employed him because my jeans deserve the very best.
Signature possessions are important. They represent who you are.
I’ve never been a faddish girl who shopped through the eyes of Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. I had my own style, according to my mother, from the time I could walk.
She did tend to exaggerate. What, did I have diapers in assorted colors? She never said, and now we’ll never know.
But the fact that my wardrobe in general never changes, needing only occasional replenishment, like if a pair of pumps or Chucks wear out, or tights that have seen their day, will tell you a little something about me.
I’m solid, sated in tradition rather than the ephemeral.
There’s comfort in continuity…flow in the familiar, like my trusty Lees, their pockets still keeping my thumbs warm as I hook them in their folds.
How they loiter around my hips even when belted.
Loose, soft and comfy.
What else can I say except, putting them on is like coming home.
That’s us, me and Lee, payin’ the rent.