The Blues

"Letting go, facing up to the truth that it is time to part. Giving way to the day that well may break my heart. It's not a thing I choose; to win, I have to lose." -- from Jekyll & Hyde

This weekend, I wore my favorite pair of jeans to run some errands. They're Gap boot-cut stretch denim, blue with a greenish wash, size 6 long, faded on the thighs and the back pockets. Those jeans have served me well for close to a decade, through high school and college, through the city and the chemistry lab, through shopping and the machine shop, through living and lounging and learning, through football games and the mating game, through the Freshman Fifteen and the Senior Negative Five that, somehow, also negated two dress sizes.

I've worn them so roughly and so often that the denim is brushed baby-soft and the cut conforms to every curve of my body. I wore them on my bloated days and my skinny days, I wore them to kick around the lab and to mingle at formal events. When the contents of my right front pocket sliced a hole clear through the fabric covering my groin last autumn, I continued to wear them. When that hole ripped and widened to the point where I very nearly flashed passers-by with every step, I sewed it up and continued to wear them.

Then I graduated college. The contents of my closet have shifted in the time since commencement, with dress trousers and blouses and sky-high heels taking places of honor away from my Chucks and tees and, of course, my favorite jeans. Opportunities to slip into my beloved blues and spend quality time with them are few and far between these days, so I relished the feeling of the yielding fabric against my body on Saturday. Then I spun to check out my booty in the mirror -- come on, all women do this -- and noticed that I could see my panties clear through the fabric.

In utter denial, I threw on a shirt long enough to cover my rear and went about my business, vowing to not survey the damage until later that evening. I held out for as long as I could, then, close to midnight, I shrugged out of my jeans and took a look.

The fabric hadn't ripped; it was worn transparent. Too many years of sitting on the stoop and sitting on the sidewalk and sitting on the Steps, I guess. About nine square inches are threadbare; the damage is too diffuse to stitch up. I could try to patch them, but the results would most likely be hideous. Alternatively, I could cut my losses, savor the good years, and toss them out with the garbage.

I washed them, pressed them, and tucked them back into my closet. I'll decide another day.