I just fixed my favorite jeans. And I love it more than before.
This particular pair of jeans has been part of my wardrobe for more than 10 years now. Yes, at times it doesn’t fit and become a stow away in the back of my closet. An illegal immigrant hiding away, gasping for some fresh air and a chance to live freely... even though it would be embarrassing for it, and uncomfortable for me, to be seen together in public.
Let me establish this, it’s not just ordinary jeans. it’s got a funky buckle at the back, zips on the pockets (little useless 4cm x 10cm ones), and bleach scorched lines on the upper thighs, and a wide leg cut – a fit not easy to find in a Skinny Jean World these days. Comfortable, funky, and thus to my mind – pretty awesome.
Over the years the overstressed seams and zippers managed to hold but the scorched lines proved to be the weakest link in the whole ensemble. The bleach truly did a number on them. The first rip I determinedly labelled as fashionable. Over time I delicately helped along fraying edges for a funkier look, and I paired it with a long top in case they took matters into their own hands at an inopportune moment.
As the size of my hull varies, the jeans temporarily takes refuge from me in the stuffy hold of my wardrobe until such time that I dig them out again, rips and all. This routine repeats regularly. It currently fits, and currently has 3 rips. The last one joined us a few weeks ago, and this one is a doozy. Almost as wide as my pocket and far higher up than the others, not a fashionable spot at all... But I still love them and just can’t manage to throw them out.
So, I made an executive decision that it is time. I can no longer expect my donkey to compete in a horserace.
As a child my mother sewed patches over gashes in my trousers. I wasn’t a ladylike little girl and had just as many, if not more, scrapes and bruises as most of the boys in my neighbourhood. I don’t blame my mother. It wasn’t economically viable to buy new trousers every time I fell, so she covered up the holes while embarrassing me enough to take better care of my clothes. I wore carrots on my knee, a strawberry on my bum and a pumpkin on my shoulder. (She didn’t bargain on how I would come to love my strawberry though...)
I’m in my 30’s now and not particularly fond of fruit and vegetables either on my plate or clothes. Similar patches are out of the question, but I reckon the same principles can still be applied.
With my sewing machine plugged in and the image of the aftermath of a food fight as a reference as what to avoid, I was confronted with questions. Should I sew over the rips or around them? Should I treat each individually or as a whole? Straight stitching or zigzag? Closely spaced stitches or more relaxed? Rectangles or curly pattern? What colour thread?
To be clear, I am familiar with the basic concepts of sewing, but what I was about to attempt was a different ball game, an activity that should be done hooked up to a computer with flashing warning lights and sirens blaring. My mind was spinning in rhythm to the cogs of my sewing machine. In the end I took my foot of the pedal and realised that my jeans were already busy with their funeral flower arrangements. Whatever I did couldn’t worsen the problem.
So I threaded my sewing machine with a burgundy rich thread, remnants of odd sewing projects I recently took on as maid of honour. And instead of trying to eliminate the problem, I created a border around the 'ouchie'. At first a straight lined, medium stitched rectangle to keep an extra layer of denim in place on the inside. Later on I got braver and added twirls.
As I was working away I realised how much this aligns with what I’ve read recently in a book a dear friend suggested, The art of Frugal Hedonism by Rowland and Grubb. They touch on creating your own normal, being a character, revelling in the good brain chemistry of resourcefulness, undercomplicating things.
Who gets to decide what is normal? And who wants to be normal anyway? I sure don’t! Be your own you. Be the author of your own life. And damn, there is no better feeling than to stand back, admire your work and think “it is good...”
We all remember how much fun it was to build sand castles when we were young. The fact that it would be washed away during the evening tide didn’t stop you from building them. You revelled in the process of digging the perfect moat, or building towers as high as your father’s knee. Slow down and enjoy the sand between your toes, and even those under your fingernails. Use the resources you have and enjoy the process.
My “new” jeans are a metaphor for life. Only you can decide when to throw something out, hide it in the back of your closet, air it out or wear with pride. Everyone has ripped bleach scorched lines in their lives. They add character and it depends on you whether you’re going to cover it with a patch or handle the frayed edges delicately and give it a second, third or fourth chance. Or possibly find something to support the fabric to avoid further rips.
But most importantly, embrace the ouchies. See the hurt and pain for what it is, but build something new around it, frame it, bedazzle it, let it be a feature instead of something to be covered up. The age old saying – when life gives you lemons, make lemonade – finally makes sense. More than using what you have and making the most of it, turn it into something that quenches your thirst. Something that leaves a sweet taste on your tongue. Something you can share with others.
What are the ouchies in your life? Are you willing to frame them and inspire others?
It is time. Embrace that ouchie!
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