Parenting and family, served with a shot of vodka
Guess what, y’all? My mom is in town visiting from Washington state. Since she, like, raised me and everything, the least I could do is take a step back from all my social media to enjoy the rare time I have with her.
I even took the week off work! So, this week, I’m digging in the archives and posting something I wrote in 2006.
I was inspired to find this column for two reasons: Because of something Lisa at Real Mom of Long Island a few weeks ago (see it here); and because a close relationship of mine, similar to the topic of this column, is currently coming to an end.
Enjoy — thanks for stopping by!
Ask around, and most women can tell you exactly what they were doing when they realized a long, nurturing relationship was ending.
My friend Danielle was cleaning out her closet when she and her truly beloved were separated for life. My amiga Javacia was getting out of her car in the parking lot at work, when she realized a longtime bond was coming to an end.
On the morning of Oct. 4, 2006, I was in the hallway of my house applying mascara in the mirror, when my husband told me it was over.
“You can’t wear those jeans,” he said. “There’s a hole in them.”
Horrorstruck, I swirled around in the mirror to get a better look. He was right. My pink and white striped panties were peeking through a sizable slit in the middle of my butt, where the pocket seam had finally worn too thin to survive another day of wear.
I still remember the day we met. I was looking for a new pair and after hitting up all my usual stores with no luck, I cruised into Banana Republic. They looked cute on the rack, and when I tried them on, I knew we were meant for each other.
We fit together like puzzle pieces, me and those jeans. Which is why I didn’t bat an eye as I shelled out $85 for them — a lot of dough on a reporter’s salary. And as our relationship wore on, we just grew closer and closer.
On days when I wasn’t feeling cute, all I had to do was slip into them and I instantly felt like a million bucks.
They were soft and comfortable and had just enough elasticity to retain their flattering shape until the next washing. The pockets were located in the perfect place to make my hips look narrower, but still shapely.
As any woman can tell you, just because a pair of jeans fits, it doesn’t always mean it looks good on you. But when I was wearing these, I never felt the need to ask anyone, “Do these pants make me look fat?”
And they were versatile, too. I could just as easily pair them with a T-shirt and tennis shoes as a fancy shirt and heels. They were my fashion staple, the backbone of my personal style, the one article of clothing that could lift my spirits on the dreariest of days.
Oh jeans, how will I live without you?
I guess I could have them professionally framed, like a retired basketball jersey. I could pour out a little liquor on their behalf, or hold a funeral for the jeans to provide closure.
But for now, I’ll just have to fondly recall our last date together: Sept. 28 at a hip-hop show in Bloomington, Ind. Maybe I popped that last fragile thread while I was pumping my fist to Inspectah Deck’s dope opening verse from “Triumph.” Or perhaps I was jumping up and down as Method Man delivered an awe-inspiring performance of “Fall Out.”
In retrospect, if I had to lose them, that was probably the perfect outing for our finale. We had a blast that night: my husband, me and those jeans. So I will fondly remember how they went out in a blaze of drunken glory, at the best show that I’ve attended during the three years that I’ve owned them.
Rest in peace, jeans. I won’t forget you.
***This column originally ran in Velocity/The Courier-Journal in 2006.
It’s hard to lose a favorite article of clothing, man. Real hard.
What was the hardest apparel for you to part with? Come on, I know you have one.