Dawn O Watson | CNBNewsnet
The other day I decided to clean out my closet and dispose of any pants, jeans, or leggings that I seldom wore. I never dreamed it would lead to a trip down memory lane.
First, I dug out my jeans and sorted them by the numbers, starting with You’ll Never See This Size, Again, and ending with If These Fit, You Should Be Ashamed.
I completely ignored the polyester pocket, the group that hung forlornly in the back—those always fit because the elastic will take on any punishment my girth can give it—and pulled out all manner of denim leg coverings I’d accumulated since 1974.
Now, I don’t like to relegate fashion to shoulds and shouldn't, but the Daisy Dukes would definitely make my kids drive me to Genesis, and I don’t mean the group Phil Collins sung in.
As I held each pair up, tender memories flooded me; here are the jeans I wore at a drive-through animal compound, years ago, the right leg still stained with coffee from when the giraffe stuck his head in the window for a taste of my cappuccino. And here are the jeans I wore at a concert I attended with my teenagers. See that hole in the back? Mosh-pit.
The larger sizes show my advancing age. I remember the Great Binge of 1996, when we were snowed in for days and our pipes froze. The jeans I wore then are easily identifiable by their broken zipper and nail-polish speckles. Also, the hem is torn where I attempted to learn the Macarena.
I continued sorting through stone-washed (actually, I spilled bleach), stressed (who isn’t?), skinny (only on the legs, the top is still fat), and black (who am I trying to kid; they never made me look thin), until finally, I decided to put them in a big bag to donate to charity.
I don’t need objects to remind me of the way things used to be; my long-term memory is in fairly good shape, even when I’m not, and clinging to clutter won’t make the past more memorable.
I heave a sigh and tie up the huge bag of pants, feeling satisfied that I’ll always remember the fun I had and the clothing I wore while I was having it.
But way back in the depths of the closet, a little pair of Daisy Dukes is folded neatly, waiting for someone to discover them. If they could talk, they’d tell you about a young girl who wore them, long before age made her modest, and time made her charitable.