While changing into my jammies Monday night—yes, I know, I’m a rockstar—I found that at some point during the course of the day, one of the belt loops on my jeans had torn off. I was left with nothing but a detached loop flapping freely in the autumn breeze like a windsock.
My poor belt had been partially unsecured for some unspecified period of time. It totally could have made a run for it, and where would that have left me? Pantsless*, my friends, pantsless. And that’s a whole other kind of trick-or-treating.
The kind nobody really wants.
Anyway, as I stood there in my Jar-Jar Binks footie pajamas**, contemplating the unfortunate state of said pair of jeans, it occurred to me that maybe it was time to go shopping. Because, wanting to admit it or not, the fact is that the old daily denim was starting to show some wear all over the place. In fact, one pleasant Sunday a few weeks ago, the Puddinette had to spend a goodly portion of the afternoon berating me because I may have—no admissions of guilt here, mind you—may have worn a pair of jeans with holes in the knees to church that morning.
I tried to explain how being as rockstar as I am (see above) came with a certain set of liberties and expectations, one of which was holey denim in the House of the Lord. She replied that holey denim was better suited for the House of Blues and then suggested, not subtly, that I might consider being an adult from time to time. I’m not sure she convinced me about this whole "adulthood" business, but I don’t believe that particular pair of pants made its way back into the "raggedy jeans drawer."
So, shopping it would have to be.
I hate shopping.
And then, in answer to my prayers, as I stood in my closet Tuesday morning choosing a shirt for the day (a process that usually includes a blindfold, three spins-in-place, and a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey dart) my eye caught a familiar blue on the one shelf I use for "long term storage." Denim blue.
I’d found my Levi reserves.
And there was much rejoicing.
Truth be told, though, it wasn’t really a reserve. These weren’t some Christmas gifts I’d had the foresight to set aside, tags in place, until a time of need arose. No, no, I’m neither that smart nor organized.
No, sadly, these were my "tubby jeans", stacked away years ago when the wave of my ever changing…um…gravitational affectation hit a low point. See, most American’s yo-yo. I, instead, tend to kind of see-saw. It’s a much slower, more methodical process resulting from the fact that I neither crash diet nor crash binge. Basically, over time I tend to make poor decisions here and there, more and more frequently, until eventually I slowly correct them and go the other way.
It also means that jeans I bought and barely wore but for a few months grew too big for me 3 or 4 years ago. So I stored them, happy to wait for the chunky kid in me to push his side of the see-saw back down to Earth.
And here we are.
And there was much rejoicing.
So, yeah, I suppose it’s time to toss the "improving personal health" ball back into the air along with all the other self-enrichment projects I’m juggling at the moment and see what falls back down.
Hopefully it’ll be the skinny kid.
In the meantime, at least I’ve got nice jeans to wear.
And hey, at least I don’t have to go shopping!
**OK, I don’t really have any of these either. But they’d be really cool and the kids would love them! If anyone ever finds an adult-sized set that would fit me (adult XL…well, XXL, nobody wants ’em snug) and sends ’em my way, I’ll name a fictional character after you.