Every now and then I come across something too good to not pass on. A guest blogger, so to speak. Without delay, I pass on Summer’s Farewell:
Tonight I packed up and said goodbye to a dear, dear friend. It’s never easy
to end a relationship, but this one was especially difficult.
It started with the decision to clean out my closet – pack away all the
maternity clothes that I no longer need and get organized before going back
to work. I was sorting through pants when I came across them–my favorite ultra-low cut, hip hugging jeans. We could hardly contain ourselves-like old friends meeting for coffee and talking a mile a minute…immediately the memories came rushing back—and we smiled at each other about the secrets that we’d never share with anyone else.
I tore off my pj pants and squeezed into MY jeans. Racing into the bathroom, we were giddy like kids on the last day of school…yet there was a tension between us that went beyond the way the buttonhole
was stretched and the zipper was hardly holding together–we were on shaky ground.
Staring in the mirror, we talked about the things that we’d do together now
that we were reunited–but our hearts weren’t in it. I had almost convinced
us both that another 6 weeks of my morning Boot Camp would eliminate the muffin top that was threatening to smother the semi-frayed edges of the waistline. It was at that moment that we both saw it–the baby vomit on the shoulder of my t-shirt. Of course, it was the last straw…my jeans told me that it was over—I had betrayed them for the last time. I begged them for
another chance–promised to get back into shape and not let myself turn into a “before” picture–we’d go away for a weekend on a fun trip, shop for a
sexy camisole–start over!! But my jeans were relentless…”For pete’s sake,
you have Advanced RevitaLift anti-aging night cream on the counter where
your Urban Decay Midnight Cowboy glitter eye shadow used to be,” they
screamed at me. “I don’t even recognize you anymore!”
I cried and asked them not to be so cruel–to give me time. They replied
that time was part of the problem–that more time would only make it worse. Then they told me that we BOTH knew that this was
inevitable…that while our love ran deep, we’d never been stupid enough to
believe that it would last forever.
The tears started rolling down my cheeks as I remembered the day that we’d met at Nordstrom. We went out together that same night…we chose a killer pair of heels and one of what would be hundreds of sexy little tops that
we’d wear to go out. That first date we danced away the blues from my recent break-up. Who needed a silly boyfriend from college when I was young, skinny, and wearing the best jeans on the planet???
We had so many great years…nights dancing until closing time, mornings
when we’d slide into a comfy pair of flip flops and head for brunch where a
bloody mary cured all! We had weekends in Vegas where we donned indecent shirts to party at the Palms, and we had casual days watching the O’s play baseball at Camden Yards. I remember the day we decided to break up with a particularly handsome guy who just wasn’t the One, so we chose an awesome blue shirt that gave me as much cleavage as a 32B could muster…and we walked to the restaurant to meet him for drinks. I also remember the moment when we decided that we’d have ONE LAST night with this hottie…and I remember the shame of the next day when we regretted it. But we had each other.
Then there was Randy, my husband. We went together to help Randy clean his new house before he moved in…and before Randy and I became a steady item. Things seemed like they would be perfect forever…even Randy remembers how great the jeans looked as I scrubbed kitchen cabinets.
“But we both saw this coming,” my jeans whispered, “there were signs…”
More and more I began passing over my favorite jeans for a more tailored
look from AT Loft. Or I wanted a comfy pair from the Gap to wear to football
games….there were no more nights stumbling home at 2AM with nothing more than a tube of lipstick and a new phone number stuffed in the pockets. And then we lost touch completely when I was pregnant with Lucy. Months passed…and my jeans were alone in the back of my closet. We tried again after Lucy was a few weeks old…but something just wasn’t right. It was like walking into the bedroom where you grew up—you should feel at home, but you just don’t.
Then there was the first time we rode in the Pacifica together. I’ll never
forget the look of utter betrayal as my jeans slid across the seat–”but
it’s heated leather,” I weakly tried to explain. They replied back with
utter disgust, “it’s a hatch back with a third row AND a car seat. Oh, how
the mighty have fallen.”
A second pregnancy and additional inches on my hips have just been too much. My jeans knew what I wasn’t ready to admit, and I tried to find a way to make it work. Should I keep them as a goal to get back that body we loved a decade ago? Ridiculous. Should I save them as a keepsake? Insulting. The only answer is to set them free…donate them to Goodwill where they have a chance of being picked up by some high school grad on her way to years of college parties.
“It’s late, you can spend one last night in the closet if you’d like,” I
said. “No, better to tear off the bandage quickly,” they replied – knowing
that it would only be more difficult in the morning. We embraced, and I
cried and cried as I placed them in the Goodwill bag that is now in my
trunk.
I will never, ever forget you, my friend.
Summer
