I've finally joined the jeans generation. As seasons change, the summer shorts collection finds a hiding place till spring. From now until then, blue jeans will cover this Little bottom for a few months.
I have one nasty pair that Kaye puts out when she knows I have to work outside. They began life intact and unfaded. I have a reputation for aiding and abetting the aging of my clothes. I guess it goes to the "bull in the china shop" syndrome.
Shoes come off at the door, and the odd body shape contributes to what I refer to as "waist slippage." As I slouch around with bare feet, the natural belly jiggle causes the jeans to slip and slide downward until the belted area settles atop my generous hip bones.
This means the bottoms of the 29-inch legs begin to drag on the floor. Ten thousand steps or so later, the friction between the walking surface and the hems results in fraying. That doesn't faze me in the least, but it drives Kaye to distraction. "Pull your pants up" becomes a regular admonition. She almost always says, "Please."
I usually mumble an unmentionable retort and yank on both sides of my wide belt. Then, the whole process starts all over again. I think a clever composer could turn this into a symphony or at least a popular dance: The Lift and Slip. Perhaps it would rival the Bunny Hop.
Meanwhile, I save the newest pair of jeans for "good" and try almost beyond my ability to keep them hoisted off the floor. A few years ago, I bought several pairs of suspenders and tried them for a while. My friend Leo Connick actually gave me a pair that I might wear in public on doomsday.