It's the start of the school year (though my daughter isn't in school and it doesn't feel like fall) and I think back to corduroys and turtlenecks. No matter how warm it was.
I called my mom last week, 'How was your first day at school? Did you wear your corduroys?' We laughed together.
I rarely remember wearing jeans as a child.
Maybe that's why I don't buy them for my daughter. I hate how they fit. When she was little and teeny-tiny, they always bit at the belly and met at the feet. My opposite. Mine are always large at the waist and long at the leg. That's what happens when you're 5'2-1/2" and a plus-sized momma. And they don't always make "ankle length" jeans for you.
And yet, sometimes there's nothing like a good, old comfy pair. I have a few like that. A few I hold onto, despite the hole in the back of the leg, right under my butt cheek. You know the pair. The one you'll never wear again because even a patch or a stitch wouldn't fix them.
Then there are the pairs that sit, neatly folded, at the top of my closet. The pairs that don't fit. Haven't in years. But they were favorites once. One pair with light pinkish-purple flowers on them. And the other a dark, dark blue. The dark ones get on, but don't close. Do I think they ever will? Probably not. But for some reason I can't let them go just yet. I've tried. I promise.
The most insane pair of jeans I can remember is a two-toned pair. I'm dating myself, but I can see the picture of me. In my new jeans (I was never really one for acid wash, these pre-dated those) standing out in front of my parents' house. In front of my mother's car. Posing. Proudly.
It was possibly taken after I had lost 40 pounds on Weight Watchers, but that might be my mind playing tricks on me. Surely I hadn't been on WW that young? Or maybe I wasn't actually that young. Was I?
The picture is packed away along with other memories. I don't still have THOSE jeans, but I do remember them.
It's amazing how a pair of jeans can make you feel. Horribly fat and huge if they are stiff as a board or don't close. A little bit lighter if the waist happens to breathe some. A few inches taller if they're just the right pair to wear with heels.
Then there were the college days. Jeans and boobie shirts. Bodysuits. We were girls, women - wearing bodysuits that snapped at the crotch. Big girl onesies! Can you imagine? I know you can. Some of you, anyway. Sometimes I tossed a flannel shirt on over them. Sometimes not. Amazing what the mind and body remember.
My hair, longer than ever back then. Crazy wavy. Chunky-heeled shoes. Or boots. How I loved to wear jeans with boots.
Or the pair I wore on a weekend away with my husband. We went to Lake George, horseback riding. My jeans ripped as I mounted the horse. Mortifying! Now that I think about it, those might be the ripped under the butt pair I mentioned earlier. See? Wouldn't that just be me? I hold onto everything that holds sentiment. Even a pair of jeans.
I can't help it. I'm just like my mom. It's in my genes.