Forever in Blue Jeans

That’s me.  Summer of 1980.  (I can tell because I’m still zaftig courtesy of Nick Ross’s baby weight.)

I’m posing in my Winnetka back yard proudly sporting a cowboy hat and more importantly…

My bleached blue jeans cut-offs.

Circa 1965.

Well I remember the day I excitedly washed my brand-new, full length pair of Levis with bleach in the washing machine down in our basement.

I was thrilled with the results.

My father- normally mild and tolerant- was livid.

“How could you purposely ruin a brand new pair of pants?” he fumed.  “That’s terrible.  You’re grounded!”***

*** (This was a fearsome punishment.  My brother Kenny and I referred to our house as “the locker room” because our goal was to spend as little time there as possible.  We tried to be home strictly to change clothes and catch some sleep.)

But I got where he was coming from.  Ten years old on the day of Black Friday, he had seen his entire savings account wiped out by the Crash of ’29.  The Depression had shaped him- and his entire generation- into careful savers.  Not wanton destroyers of property.

But as much as I hated doing time, I was more than willing to pay for my crime.  The end result was well worth it.

And today, some fifty years later, I still love me some blue jeans.

Whether they’re cropped, skinny, ripped, decorated with leather appliqués or plain, unless otherwise indicated, I wear them every day.

My jeans are the one piece of my wardrobe that I can not live without.

Maybe it’s because my derrière is so flat and no other pants fit me as well.

(My ex used to say that I only looked good coming, not going.  I got what he meant.)

Maybe it’s because blue denim just goes with everything.

Or maybe it’s because I’m still a teenager at heart and I refuse to wear those awful age-appropriate slacks.  The khakis or chinos or cords or whatever modest, self-respecting old ladies my age usually sport.

Ugh.  They may be appropriate but give me my jeans every time.

I am well aware that some of my fashionista girlfriends think my devotion to denim is regrettable.  But at least I know my son is okay with it.

Last year, when I was visiting him in Seattle, Nick and I went to a concert at our friend Lou Magor’s vaudeville theater, Kenyon Hall.

I had asked Nick about the dress code.

“This is Seattle, Dude.  You’re fine anywhere in jeans.”

Great.

But as we were walking up to our destination, I espied another couple my age coming to join us from the opposite direction.  They looked like this.

I got worried that I was too casual for the venue.

“Gosh, Nick, do you think I should have dressed up a little more?”

He gave the man and woman a quick once-over.

“No, Dude, you’re fine.  Old people always wear shit like that.”

I laughed.  What a great- albeit let-handed- compliment.  They were, after all, my age, and yet my son didn’t want to put me in the old people’s fashion home just yet.

So this old gray mare still has a few more years to wear jeans, I hope.

BTW My father never lost his dislike of ladies in blue jeans but at ninety-three, he finally mellowed.  During a visit, he commented on it.

“You know, babe, usually I can’t stand women in blue jeans, but on you, they look good.”

I was touched.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.  “But do you remember when you grounded me for bleaching a pair?”

“I do,” he laughed.  “I was mad, wasn’t I?”

Sweet memories.

I think of him every time I look at these.

Sure I’ve still got ’em.

Sure I still wear ’em.

Sure wish my dad was here to ground me.