I don't remember the exact moment when this last event happened but if you look very closely, there are five holes in the back of this pair of jeans. Two on the left, an obvious opening on the right, a small tear just below the right pocket, and a one on the right below the largest of holes. This one was professionally repaired some years ago.
No kidding. I sent them to Denim Therapy for repair. I remember when I sent them the guy at the Post Office wondered what kind of problems my pants could have that might require that I ship them to New York for therapy. That repair job gave me several more years in this pair of jeans.
But the end was near. I knew I couldn't send them to New York for therapy every time they fell apart. So I did what I could to keep it all together, uncomfortable as it could be at times.
My homemade remedies made things difficult. To walk, especially, or sit. This is what it was like for my jeans. On the inside:
Clearly, they needed therapy.
Now that it's over, how does one pay proper respect? I have one vote for Daisy Dukes but that's not fair to anyone, imo, although it might fuel a fantasy or two.
Maybe I can salvage parts. Harvest the pockets for a pair of jeans incapable of carrying items. Donate the zipper to one who needs closure, rivets to another who needs strength. My jeans could live on through others.
I'm having trouble letting go.
Maybe I'm the one who needs therapy.
No comments:
Post a Comment