an old pair

I have this old pair of jeans - had it for nearly ten years now - that I just love. They're so comfortable and worn-in, like second-skin. I don't ever have to worry about not having something to wear. They're stonewash blue Levis, nothing fancy, nothing trendy. They sit at the sweet spot on the hip, hitching comfortably on the curve that separates the women from the girls. They're touchable (like velvet) and they've faded in all those places I unconsciously rub or chafe, as if they're used to me irritating them there and they're okay with it. When I first got them, they were a little too long and a little too big, but I've since grown into them and they've grown with me; better that that, they've even self-hemmed themselves to fit my short legs, wearing down stitch-by-stitch so now they have a soft fray around my ankles. They even have a few threadbare spots from when I was too rough with them, but they seem all the more personal for it.

I can't wear them everywhere, though. When I first got them, I wanted to. They made me feel so good, I thought I could make them appropriate for all parts of my life. I soon learned that a blacklit club made them look a little silly and they were out of place at a family wedding. So, they don't go to those places anymore. But they're with me for all those quiet moments of reading; comfy moments of travelling; those essential I-need-something-that-feels-made-for-me moments. There are phases: when I first got them, I wore them until they almost fell apart; later, I realised they can only take so much abuse. So, I let them sit in my closet for a bit. However, more and more these days, I find myself reaching for them when all my other pants just seem like too much work.

I shop a lot. I buy a lot of clothes, but not a lot of jeans. Lately, though, I've been eyeing this new pair: a sexy-smart, black pair that look amazing, with their mysterious silk patterns embossed over the denim. They're in a store I pass really often and I think about buying them whenever I see them. They're a really expensive pair, an amount of money that's not worth investing unless I know that I'll have them for a while and that they won't fall apart on me. Last week, they went on sale. After vacillating, I decided I should at least go and try them on. The sales clerk, taking one one look at my dangling earrings, my Infinite chain, my knee-high black boots and my neo-goth silk/chiffon top says "those jeans are made for you!" I was happy to agree. She says to me that they're not available in my size, though, but she has one size up and size down. I said I'd try both.

One size up: roomy, comfy, but I'd need a belt or it'll slip off my hip. Also too long, so I'd have to alter the hem by almost 2 inches (no hope of a comfortable fray here). If I alter them, though, I'm unsure if I'd ruin the cut of the jeans, the pattern that attracted me in the first place. These are not the kind of jeans that are meant to be loose and free; they needed more structure that one size up could give me.

One size down: too tight. I felt restricted, like if I made the wrong move, a button would pop or a stitch would give. They looked fabulous when I stood straight up and didn't breath deep; but the minute I let go and tried a more natural stance, they felt awkward and uncomfortable.

Slipping back into my comfy-blues, I felt like I was sliding into a warm bed. Even the zip gave little sibilant yawn. I took the black jeans to the counter where the clerk eagerly asked which of the sizes fit and I had to watch her face fall when I said neither. She said that if I left my number, she would call if any new sizes arrived or (more likely) someone returned a pair. I said thanks and I did, but I doubt I will get a call. Most clothes are a get-'em-while-you-can kind of deal.

Walking out, I briefly thought about maybe looking for another pair of jeans. Sticking my hands into my pockets, though, I paused. These jeans were just fine. They were broken-in; they knew my curves; they were worn in all the right places. Yeah, sure, they weren't dramatic or full of flare; they certainly weren't going to Funhaus with me next weekend. But between the clubs and the opera, comes life. And these jeans were made for life.

For the time being, I'm appreciating my blues. Maybe I'll get a call from the clerk; maybe I won't. The more time passes, the less I care either way.