Old Jeans

Today, it’s going to be about my favorite pair of jeans. I call them old, my mom would most probably describe them as ratty in kind words. I’ve had them for so long, that I don’t remember when I bought them. Also, I never ended up growing, so they still fit me.

My jeans, they aren’t just a piece of apparel. They are a diary. I still remember the first stain I made; a gel pen that leaked, and I cried the whole night because I couldn’t get it out by scrubbing. That rip by the knee where it got caught on a nasty rock when I fell down playing badminton. Paint stains from my masterpiece, oil stains from when I had my favorite pakodas and wiped my hands on them. Grass stains from sitting and having a deep conversation with my best friend. Frayed edges because I’m not tall enough and don’t like folding my pants up.

Wearing them makes me feel like getting a hug from my favorite person. I’m not allowed to wear them anymore, but I still do, sometimes. I’ve been given ultimatums to throw them away. But they remain stowed away at the back of my cupboard. I can’t bear to throw away something that means so much to me. Maybe one day I will, but that day isn’t today.

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