The very best jeans are the ones that you've had forever, and they are worn, and they are soft. They are comfortable, allowing you to stride through the underbrush. The perfect color of blue. Yesterday, I was squatting with an armload of equipment, while scanning the water surface for signs of larva, when I felt the unmistakeable sensation of my jeans splitting right across my right cheek area. All the way. I usually wear my jeans until they can't be worn any longer, but this time, I had no choice...I had to wear these just a little bit longer than that.
My brother-in-law tells his worn jean story: Years ago, he was working with a tractor, digging a hole with a post hole digger attachment. He jumped on top of the post hole digger. The leg of his blue jeans got caught in the power take off, and there was a brief horrifying moment where he realized that this is exactly how people lose limbs. Just that quick, those very worn blue jeans gave way, and they were ripped right off his body, leaving him standing there, shocked, naked from the waist down, in the middle of his small town, save for the waist band of his jeans held securely by his leather belt. The postmistress stared wide eyed from across the street. His co-worker went into action, doing what any good friend would do...immediately bursting into loud laughter. Dave, struggling to cover up the more private bits with his hands, said, "Give me a coat or something!" His friend, still laughing, made sure to throw it high, so that Dave's arms had to go up, to catch it. (What are friends for?) Like I said, Dave and Anna live in a small town. It made the paper. The post mistress likes to write.