Forgive the momentary excursion into shallowness (sounds like a new posting category, no?) …
I love a decent fitting pair of jeans. These come along rarely, it seems like, probably because I don’t have the same body this year that I did last year, or the year before, and certainly not the one I had 25 years ago when I loved my Calvin Kleins. They had just enough stretch in them that they were always too tight after you washed and dried them (I wasn’t one of those purists who drycleaned them or who always line dried them either – I didn’t have the budget or the patience). I can remember having to lie down on my bed and struggle to get them on and get the zipper done up, and I wasn’t always sure I’d be able to breathe for the next few hours, and really, really hoped I didn’t have to go to the bathroom for awhile.
But once they stretched out again, they were delightful, flattering, sleek and sexy. At least I thought so. I never appreciated what I had back then, or more appropriately, the extra poundage that I DIDN’T have. I always thought I needed to lose weight, even when I could occasionally fit into a size 0. Ha. Those were the days.
Since the Calvin days, I have gone through lots of other jeans and lots of other loyalties. When ripped jeans were popular (the first time around, not now), I remember being so proud of myself when I figured out that if I used an emery board on the knees and thinned out the fabric just enough, they looked naturally worn out and would fray and tear by themselves … or they would after a series of deep-knee bends, which I could actually DO back then.
In my early married days back in the 90’s, I moved into Levi’s. Levi’s for women fit differently back then, they’ve changed the fit since then (not kidding on this, they really did revamp the line several years ago, it’s not just that my shape changed that much). They were easier to move in than my Calvins had ever been, and I was still in those stages of trying to do everything my spouse wanted to do, which included going hiking and camping. Dear God, what was I thinking? I loathe camping. Okay, “loathe” is a bit strong. But certainly the older I get, the more I am into my sensual pleasures, which include a comfortable bed and mattress and silky sheets. Life is too short to wake up stiff and sore. Not that I don’t like occasionally sitting around a campfire, watching the stars at night, but if I’m going to bed in a tent, there had better be some padding under me in the form of an air mattress or an exercise mat.