There I was, at the beginning of the new year, congratulating myself for not having put on a pound. In fact, I was convinced I’d lost a couple. Convinced, I tell you… until this morning. On a Friday, absolutely NOONE can retain me from diving into one of my pairs of jeans. NOONE. I have a few smart pairs, which I usually wear in turn, and a couple of favourite, super-comfortable, well worn, perfectly torn-up pairs that I save for if I have to pop out anywhere over the weekend, just because I can’t be seen in them at work. Or anywhere too ‘civilised’, really, only I don’t care. (Mum does.)
This morning, for whatever reason, I felt devil-may-care, and opted for my ABSOLUTELY favourite pair of jeans to wear, frayed and well-worn as they are. I hadn’t worn them in a good while, having spent the entire holidays half-naked in bed with my laptop (that’s another story.) I wasn’t too surprised when they stuck a little, coming up -they always do that when they’re super clean. It only takes an hour or so of wear for them to remember my body and relax into it perfectly.
Eight hours later… I’m physically ACHING at the hips, where my jeans have come to rest angrily half pinching at them, half pressed against what I believe is my pelvis (the area’s entirely numb). The effect is that whatever skin has come from below is mushrooming vengefully over the tight band so that, even as I type, I can actually identify my intestines flapping somewhere around my elbows.
As I wind down the last few minutes of my working week, I am calm, the only reason for which is that I have been going over the removal-of-the-jeans process in minute detail, from the wrenching open of the button and zip, through the amazing, almost reverent feeling of release, and the religious ceremony (carried out much, much later, when I’m a quarter recovered) that will end with the ceremonial burning of the jeans in a corner of the garden.
The next step? Well, it’s really quite simple: 1) Buy a bigger pair of jeans and spend a couple of years wearing them out to perfection… or 2) FUCK. Work my way back to when I looked more like this…