I had on a pair of “I am not old” jeans the other night. Out in public! They have skinny legs; actually they are technically classified as “Slim.” The “skinny” ones fit more like pantyhose. The legs in mine are wider, but they’re still considered hip.
They contain stains, paint splatters, and rips and tears. And cost a lot of money! Not mine. I got them from the “last call, next stop the garbage” rack in Old Navy. I shop there because it has “old” in its name, making me think I’m welcome.
I have a similar pair of jeans hanging in the garage, a 40-year-old pair of Levi’s. With stains from real work, paint splatters, and rips and tears that appeared the old fashion way; they were earned, not factory produced.
The other difference between my work pants and my “I’m not old” jeans are the width of the legs. They are wider and you can squat down and do stuff with no fear that the seams will rip apart.
They hang in the garage next to the rakes and snow shovels, waiting patiently to be put into action. A painting project, carpentry, or digging around in the dirt. Something that the “I’m not old pants” couldn’t hold up to. I wish I had these paint splattered, fashion pants when I was a kid and had to face my mother in a pair of jeans covered with grass stains. Especially, since she always warned as I ran out the back door, “Don’t you dare get grass stains on those pants!” She didn’t understand, when you play cowboys you have to wither on the ground and die properly after being ambushed and shot by two bad guys with loaded cap pistols.
I don’t know what point I was trying to make with this rambling. Maybe I just wanted to brag that I had a hip pair of jeans or to acknowledge that old coots still retain a sense of style; and even though we are averse to change, we are willing to stick our toe in the water every once in a while. As long as it’s cheap!
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