Have you ever loved a pair of blue jeans? Whether they be Levi’s or some designer label, stone-washed or acid-washed, boot-cut or bell-bottom? You know, just an incredibly comfortable, worn-forever pair of blue jeans?
I just had to part ways with a pair that I’ve worn literally into rags. It was hard to do. They were just so danged comfortable, so familiar, so dependable.
It takes a while to get jeans “broken in” so they fit like they were created from whole cloth just for you. These jeans qualified. They were comfortable, well-broken-in, and finding them in the dryer while folding laundry felt like opening the door and seeing a long-lost friend.
Whenever I looked in the bottom drawer of my dresser for pants, if they were there – even on the bottom of the pile – I’d dig them out without a second thought.
They were getting pretty thread-bare. Holes in the knees had been followed by holes in the thighs. These holes not only got larger, but conspired to expand toward each other. The cuffs were hopelessly frayed from countless times of scuffling along the ground. The pockets, once trust-worthy repositories for coins, guitar picks, and a flash drive, began to betray my faith by allowing valuables to escape.
The belt loop where I always clipped my car keys with a biner (pronounced “beener”) was now only attached at one end, an impotent reminder of its former useful self.
Clearly, it was time to send these once-functional, well-loved companions to the Great Denim Warehouse in the Sky. Yet, it proved more difficult than I first anticipated. Familiarity and shared history, combined with good memories of days past, can make it difficult to do what should be obvious.
Yes, my faded, worn-and-torn, ripped up blue jeans were hardly even functional by this point ... but they were comfortable, familiar, and getting rid of them would mean starting all over with a new, unbroken-in, unfamiliar pair. I wasn’t ready to face that just yet.
Just days ago, I pulled them out of the dryer, glanced inside, and realized (a) the back pocket had had a “falling out” with the rest of the pant leg, meaning my butt would be unceremoniously exposed, (b) the crotch could do the same at any second, and (c) I’m not young and hip enough to wear some crazy boxers underneath and call it stylish.
So, left without options, I accepted the inevitable, although not without a twinge of remorse. I wadded my denim companions into as tight a ball as possible, and slam-dunked their faded and tattered remains into the garbage can under our kitchen sink. Farewell, good and faithful steed.
Well, what do you think?
Is this story really a metaphor for something else, or am I just writing about an old pair of jeans?
Update
Thanks for all the comments and imaginative metaphors you thought I’d created. But no – I was just writing about an old pair of Levis. I hope that’s not too disappointing, but if so, why not try your hand at a creative church-related metaphor? Why should I have all the fun?
