store-bought ripped denim

9 Mar

I have a bad habit of combing through dusty memories and highlighting the bad parts or the questionable parts or the parts too nice to have been real. In high school I spent a lot of time in the same pair of tattered blue jeans. My favorite department store jeans, worn down at the knees and a little over my left thigh from years of near-exclusivity and misguided attempts at repair through safety pins run through the wash. As I was walking toward the cabins feeling sad about everything as I did back then at church camp in eleventh grade, one of the cool girls with store-bought ripped denim stopped me to say, “Hey, I like your jeans.” And it meant everything to me until I reached my bunk and decided she didn’t mean it. And that she probably really hated it. And she pitied me, really, because it looked like I was really trying. And with what I had, maybe I was. I’m thinking of it now for no good reason than to feel bad about things I don’t think make me feel all that bad anymore. I do it all the time, and I’d like to stop.


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