I’ll admit: I’m picky about my jeans. I look for durable, classic pairs. I don’t feel guilty admitting that one of my favorite brands is Lucky, despite how expensive they can be.
And five minutes ago, my very first pair of Lucky jeans, purchased years ago, ran out of luck.
I sprawl when I sit in an armchair. My legs go everywhere; I’m lucky if I don’t knock over furniture. Minutes ago, I fell back into one of the office’s ancient pink armchairs. One leg over one arm, the other stretched out to rest on the coffee table.
I froze. Kevin, the Sports editor, looked over at me. “Did you fart?” he asked. Numbly, I shook my head.
“My jeans,” I whimpered. “I think I just tore them.”
Sure enough, they were ripped. Right up the crotch. I should have been embarrassed, but no. I was in shock. I stood up, carefully covering the hole over my underwear, and walked to my cubicle. Believe it or not, I have clothing stored in there just for such a wardrobe malfunction. I pulled on a pair of yoga pants, then emerged holding the recently torn denim.
My favorite jeans are gone now. I’m not sure what to do about that. I guess I’ll get new ones. I feel like I’ve lost a good friend in these jeans.
Goodbye, ancient jeans. I’ll miss you so.