I remember the day we met. It was crowded in that store, and I was deeply focused. I knew what I wanted; I was tenacious; I was prepared to do some serious business. At first glance, I missed you. You were shy then, hiding behind your big sister, and she's the one I picked up and took into that room. I tried her on. She was TOO BIG. Gleeful, I tossed her aside and pranced out (re-clad for modesty's sake) to find something smaller. That's when I met you. Do you remember?
You fit me like a glove. I hugged you tight and bought you. (I'm talking about a pair of jeans, here, people. That's all: a pair of jeans.)
For three years we were together, and I wore you to so many momentous moments. Shopping trips frenzied enough to bring chaos to a peaceful world. Birthday parties. Dance parties. The glorious, long-anticipated dress-down Fridays at school.
And remember that one day? The day Ilona told you my $#@ looked nice in you? Yeah. I remember that too. Probably why I wore you so often because she was RIGHT. I did look good.
Alas, I knew the end was at hand. The signs were all there: the worn spot high on my left thigh where the pocket lining was beginning to wear through. The long tangled frayed hem that tickled the tops of my bare feet and dragged behind me. The thin thin knees. I shouldn't have worn you so much; I shouldn't have loved you so much.
And then last night the inevitable happened. I don't know why I was so careless, but as I bent my knee and leaned down into my seat on the couch, I felt the split. I felt you tear at the knee, and that's when I knew you had given up the ghost.
For in the world of Kirstin's propriety, a 34 and a half year old woman is too old for torn jeans. At least this 34.5 year old woman is.
So it is with great sadness that I lay you, my favorite pair of jeans, aside. I will wear you no longer. And if I can bypass my hesitance to desecrate your substance, I may cut you apart and use the pieces for craft projects. Is that heartless of me? Or is it what you would have wanted?