Today started badly.

I retired an old pair of blue jeans this morning. Retired, in this case, being a euphemism for binning, ditching, heaving or throwing out. It was a sad day because this particular pair of jeans had been with me for about 15 years. They carried with them a lot of history; successes, failures and much of what life has to throw at you. Now don’t get me wrong, it was time. I am not of the generation that buys new jeans with holes and tears; I just can’t get comfortable with the idea that my trews will let in more breezes than they keep out. Nor am I likely to regress to wearing patched jeans, as when a child. Iron on patches that, if Mum had time, were affixed to the inside of the leg, and reinforced with a fine line of stiches. Or, when she didn’t have time were hastily slapped on the exterior of the hole and ironed so fiercely that the patch itself was afraid to fall off. So when my old buddies finally developed that wear hole along the thigh I knew it was time. Nor was this sad event unexpected. These old soldiers were like a second skin; they were a perfect fit even after a wash, somehow understanding through the years that my belly was larger, my arse wider and my patience the only thing thinner about me. They, for more than a decade, were the epitome of comfort. But, their good service had worn them down.  They were paper thin, they were tired and I knew it was but a matter of time.

What surprises me is that I am the only one who will mourn their loss. My delightful wife, not recognizing just how much a man can identify with his jeans, has campaigned for years to bedeck me in newfangled designer labels. She wants jeans that go with a sports coat, with a roll neck sweater, and with a pair of penny loafers. I want jeans that I could wear whenever, and with whatever was clean. She winced every time I pulled those jeans on. My daughters, giggling behind open palms, would whisper things like camel-toe, cowboy, grand-dad and worse. When pressed they would admit to preferences for jeans that came from high end shops with names that remind me of perfume or those fellows that embroider their names on women’s blouses. Even my son will not be saddened by their passing. But that’s because he’s a man, and won’t notice and, if he did, could care less. That at least I can understand.

Perhaps the dog will miss them. I gotta figure that after 15 years those old jeans must have accumulated a bunch of really good smells. I know where some of them might have come from, but refuse to comment any further on that.

I reckon this is just a small piece of life’s jigsaw. A microcosm, a definition, a metaphor. Or, on the other hand, it could just be that the damn jeans finally wore out.

Pity though, I really liked those jeans.