You know that favorite pair of pants everyone has? The pair that’s not too loose and not too tight? The pair that’s not too long and not too short? The ones that hug your butt just right?

For me, that pair of pants are jeans I bought on clearance at Hot Topic about five years ago. They are soft, thin denim with just the right amount of give. At least they used to have just the right amount of give. Lately, I wear them one time and they stretch out so much that you can tell where my knees have been even when I’m standing up and every time I get up from my seat, they fall down so far, my ass cheeks say ‘Hello!’ to passersby.

The jeans have skull snaps down the front and little silver loops on the back pockets, and they are just the level of badass I like in a jean. They also happen to be just exactly the right length, which is miraculous for me. I’m that exact wrong height where I have to roll up regular length pants, but petite pants make me look like I’m making some attempt at trying to combine full-length pants and capris into the ultimate mid-calf trouser. Basically, they are the perfect jean, and I really wanted them to last forever.

Like this pair of boots I used to have. They were Tommy Hilfiger boots, which means nothing other than that’s what brand  they happened to be.  I’m not a big label whore. Unless, of course, the label says “Red Hot Redhead, Free with Purchase”. Anyway, these boots were blue, kind of a cross between navy and a deep gray, and they came with laces that were, oddly enough, red and black. Now, in general, I am a matcher. I’m a matcher from way back. But I was drawn in by the contrast. Black and red laces with navy boots. How scandalous!  I’m not gonna lie to ya. They were a little bit sexy. And they have a semi-interesting story to boot… heh, to boot. Or maybe it’s not at all interesting, but I’m telling you anyway.

So, I saw these boots one day in the store. And I wanted them. I mean, I really wanted them. It was a visceral reaction where I wanted to jump up on the display and hump the blue off of them. But they were $100. Now, I know for some of you people, you’re probably like – Seriously? $100? And you wouldn’t buy them why? I can answer that. Don’t try to stump me with the hard questions. I am a fencer with the Q&As people. You thrust, you best believe I’m going to parry.

First off, at the time we were a special kind of flat broke. The kind where you are like, “Fuck, we are so eating stale popcorn and staying in tonight. Oh well, we may as well get the ducks drunk.” (Heh! Now that’s a good story.)

Second, I had never spent that much for a pair of shoes in my life. I had owned exactly one pair of shoes that cost over a hundred dollars and I got them for Christmas from my Dad. To me, spending $100 for a pair of shoes was a LOT of money. Especially when you didn’t have any money. I never had and we still didn’t.

Shawna and I, however,  were raised in, what you could call, differing circumstances. She didn’t get a whole lot of money dropped on her for no reason, but her family did have plenty of it and they spent a fair amount on themselves. New car, honey? Sure! What the hell? Want to fly to Wisconsin for dinner tonight? Sure, sounds good. (No lie. This particular story still blows my mind.) So, regardless of our financial situation (BLEAK!!!), she didn’t yet have the understanding of life as an ass-poor individual and decided if I wanted the blue boots, I should have the blue boots. So she bought them for me (on credit, of course). I opened them, dropped my head into the box and thought, ‘What in the hell am I getting into? Clearly I’ve hitched my caboose to the engine of the crazy train.’ Because we really were that broke… and it really was irresponsible… but we were kids and it was sickeningly sweet, so what are you gonna do?

As it turns out though, the gesture wasn’t quite as frivolous as it first seemed. Because I loved those boots. I mean… loved. No, I didn’t end up mounting them and humping the blue off them. I did, however, literally wear the dye right out of them. I wore those suckers almost every day until the inside of the shoes felt like I was standing on rocky terrain and the leather started coming off in chunks. And the boots were no longer blue at this point, but some really funky hue of blue-ish. It took roughly five years for them to fall into such a state of hobo.

Finally, one day, Shawna just sat me down and was like, “I think it’s time to let them go.” And I was like, “Nooooo!!!!!!” And she was like, “Don’t they hurt your feet?” And I was like, “*sniff* Yes.” And she was like, “I’ll get you another pair.”  And then she took them away from me and put them by the trash. Tears were shed. It was all very emotional. And you know what? I never did get another pair. You know why? Because they didn’t make them anymore, that’s why! So, what I’m telling you is, don’t go promising things until you have the whole story, people. Deception is an ugly, evil beast. And, sure, maybe my feet bled every time I wore those blue boots. My ears bleed every time my nephew has his high-pitched squealing fits. These are the things we endure for love!

So, anyway, I’m over it now. But I’m afraid my favorite jeans are about to go the same way as my blue boots. And it will be a truly tragic loss. They’d finally gotten so worn this past summer that I was able to put that perfectly frayed hole in one knee (though it’s progressively gotten bigger and bigger and now it shows my knee and half of my lower leg). They are seriously perfect. Or they were. Every time I wash them lately, they feel a little more like cheese cloth. They are barely even jeans anymore. They are like essence of jeans with a see-through ass. But I will not retire them willingly. The ass will have to rip out completely before I give them up. Completely. A little rip means nothing to me. I once wore a pair of Shawna’s old worn jeans with such a huge slit below the butt that I had to wear boxer briefs with them.

I commit fully and eternally. It’s how I roll.