Old Blue Jeans

“You need to finally get rid of those old blue jeans,” my wife said. 

“Why? What’s wrong with them?” I replied.

“They’re disgusting!”

“What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with them. They wear just fine.”

“They’re smelly and they look terrible. They have rips and stains all over them. They’re faded. I can buy you a new pair, honey.”

“I don’t need a new pair. These work great.”

“But look at all those cuts and stains.”

“Those are not imperfections, dear. They’re memories. Rites of passage.”

“Huh?”

“Do you see that oil stain? That’s from when the atv rolled over on the side of that mountain, but we were able to flip it over and drive it back down the mountain using only a pair of pliers because the gas switch broke off!

And see that blood stain? That’s from when we slaughtered that hog in central Texas!

See that grease stain? That’s the brisket we cooked last fall where we just sat watching the smoke and talking about our plans for the holidays.

And do you see that rip? We were going on a walk down through the creek and I got hung up on the fence trying to help my nephew through.

See, I can’t get rid of these jeans. They’re priceless.”

My wife let out an audible sigh. “Fine. Just don’t even think of wearing them out in public.”

I smiled knowing I would wear them out in public again soon enough.

She smiled knowing the jeans would mysteriously end up in the trash sometime over the next week or so.

*Note to reader: Though blue jeans are the subject of this story, it would have been just as accurate to talk about a pair of leather gloves, old baseball cap, t-shirt, work boots, truck, dog, jacket, wallet, or any other random object of an individual's choosing to apply significance to.

By: Jefferson Marshall