The first thing I bought with my first paycheck...

...was a pair of Levi 501 button fly jeans. They were boys’, so they sat lower on the hips and were relaxed. It was the early 90’s. Baggy enough to be grunge, fitting enough to still look like a girl. I loved them. I wore them to school. To make out with my boyfriend in his parent’s basement. I took them to college. They traveled across the country with me when I graduated. I hiked up volcanoes in them. I hiked in caves. I sat in them on the floor of my first one-room studio apartment, which had no furniture, cross legged, the hems at the feet all frayed, and cried to my sister twelve states away about not being able to find a job. Eventually, I wore them to my job.

First they got a hole at the knee, then the butt started to wear thin on account of my bony ass. Eventually, they were ratty as hell. I had to do something. Drastic? Yes: I cut them into jean shorts. The button holes on the fly were so worn they’d come undone of their own accord, so I sewed them smaller. I ironed patches beneath the back pockets where you could see the sun shine through. I wore them more. Then: it was time.

I retired the first pair of jeans I bought with my first paycheck when I moved to Australia. It was sad, but they were dead. Gone. Practically just a series of patches and thread. It was time.

After I got home from Australia, I flew to New York and Becky and I shopped at a discount store in New Jersey. I spotted them across the room. This is the part where we would have locked eyes (you know, if jeans had eyes) and cheesy love music would have played over the loud speaker. I made my way to the clearance rack. I snatched them up, tried them on in the dressing room, and Becky exclaimed, “Yeah, I like ‘em. They’re cool.” We’ve been together ever since. They came with me to Japan, another move to Portland. Road trips. Dates. They were aptly named “the nice-ass jeans” by my ex-boyfriend. The hems around the feet are just the right length in my favorite pair of shoes.

I regret to inform you that the Lucky nice-ass jeans are dying. They’ve got a hole on the top of the left thigh, which I can live with. But around Christmas, they started getting the same worn-thin transparency around the sit-bones that the Levis had. Damn my bony ass. I asked my mother to perform some serious surgery, patches and stitching here and there. It worked for a while. Now, it’s no use. It’s time to retire them. Before I’m entirely forced to turn them into strictly around-the-house jeans, I’m trying one more set of ass-patches. But they won’t feel the same. It won’t be long now. The patches will feel stiff and weird. I won’t wear them as often. Today, at the mall, I shopped for a new favorite pair of jeans.

I also regret to inform you that, much to my dismay, the jeans with zippers on the side at the ankle, the kind that burn your leg when you put them on straight out of the dryer, the kind we wore in the SEVENTH GRADE, are back. I tried on maybe 10 pair (not the ones with the zippers—I’m SO not going back to seventh grade). I tried on the “boyfriend cut” jeans, which do not fit like boyfriend’s jeans at all. I tried on the ones that are pre-bleached to look like they’re worn and wrinkled, which The Voix said made me look like I’d gotten fat, washed them a bunch, then lost weight. Bleachy stretch-marks. No thank you. I found a pair that I liked—they’re cute and make my legs look long—so I bought them. But they’re trendy. They’re good for a fling, but not the real thing. Now that I’m on the market for some new Most Favorite Jeans, it looks like what’s out there since last time has changed. Maybe I’ll never fall in love with a pair of jeans again, but I’ll keep trying them on, and who knows. It could happened when I least expect it.