Torn and Frayed

The life and death of a great pair of blue jeans


Rrrriiiipppp. It’s an awful sound. More like surround sound - one rip in front, one in back. I’m alone at the ATM vestibule a few blocks from my house. It’s late afternoon and the bank is closed. I’ve just knelt down to retrieve my fumbled wallet, but the tearing sound jolts me like a stun gun. My eyes close tightly as I wince, not in pain, but, in painful recognition that I’m about to experience something unpleasant. I work up the courage to open my eyes and assess the damage.

Looking down, I release the breath I’ve been holding as my eyes focus on my left knee. And that’s exactly what I see - my bare left knee visible through a gaping seam to seam chasm where a small tear had once been. I reach around back to discover the stylish slit below my right hip has spread open at right angles leaving the pocket hanging free like an open tent flap. My favorite pair of dungarees are finished.

I rise to my feet, wallet in hand. My once perfectly contoured jeans hang shapelessly from my hips like a war-torn battle flag. The ATM machine is prompting for a pin number. Behind the words I see my dusky reflection and wonder how much would I pay for another pair of jeans like the ones that have just died.

The thought takes me back to the beginning...

Trying on pants is a lot like going fishing. You chose a promising location in hopes of going home with a keeper, knowing full well that, despite your best efforts, there’s a good chance you’ll wind up going home empty handed.

I entered the Bob’s store on Route One with guarded optimism. The jeans were displayed floor to ceiling on shelves organized by brand, size and style. Stone-washed, boot-cut, relaxed-fit, button-down, straight-leg, low-rise. Most were folded neatly, labels facing out, while others lay strewn about like discarded buffet samples. I zeroed in on the Lee straight-legged variety, gathered the store-allowed maximum six pairs, and headed for the fitting room.

The first five pairs were quickly jettisoned to the reject pile for various imperfections and deficiencies. I was starting to feel guilty about the work I was creating for the re-stock clerk, when it occurred to me that the pants I’d just pulled on, pair number six, felt pretty good. I checked the mirror. They looked good, too; perfect inseam; snug, comfortable waistband with shirt both tucked and untucked. I sat on the mini-bench in my tiny cubicle; leaning back to simulate contentment, and forward to portray intensity. Satisfied, I put on my shoes and drew back the privacy curtain for the next battery of tests.

Outside the cubicle were several full-length mirrors. I walked back and forth observing the pants from every angle. The denim flexed comfortably with each step while the cuffs settled over my shoe tops like loose fitting bracelets. There were no visible weaknesses. I removed the jeans and set them apart from the throw-back pile.

At $24.99, the pants seemed a bargain, but I held on to the sales slip; the trial wasn’t quite finished.

At home, I stripped the tags and tossed the pants in the washing machine. The label said pre-shrunk, but I had to be sure. Besides, I couldn’t help wondering about the personal hygiene of those who may have tried on my jeans before I did.

The tumble through the laundry was a success. The pants maintained their resolute form. All that remained was a three-day break-in period during which, I washed them again, and only wore them around the house.

The next three years played like one long blue jeans commercial.


Whether it was a concert, sporting event, or hike in the woods, my best dungarees were a constant amenity. I saw Springsteen, The Stones, and Pearl Jam in them. I wore them to Fenway Park, Gillette Stadium and Madison Square Garden. I was wearing them when The Patriots won their last two Super Bowls and when The Red Sox defeated The Yankees in game seven. I wore them on a few first dates, and, through no fault of the pants, one second date. When in flight, I wore them on the plane, never subjecting them to confinement in a suitcase or luggage compartment. I fished the bass ponds of southern Maine at twilight in those pants and thought nothing of wearing them several days in a row. Every invitation was opened with hopes that the occasion called for casual dress. They were durable, comfortable, remarkable.

Toward the end of our third year together, I noticed the pants were beginning to show signs of erosion. The knees were chafing, and a few loose threads had begun to break free. Of course, frayed threads suggest a certain sense of style for a blue jeans wearer, the way a few premature gray hairs bestow an air of sophistication upon a younger man. But like gray hairs, abraded threads multiply, and soon what was fashionable and cool turns decrepit and old. My favorite pair of dungarees were beginning to wither.

Pants were invented for one reason; to cover the lower half of our bodies. Once unable to carry out this function, they are of no use to anyone (cut-offs are not useful). And if you’re like me, when you find a pair that both look and feel good while fulfilling their purpose, you’ll do just about anything to avoid parting with them.

I began altering some fundamental behaviors. I paid closer attention to what I ate so as not to put any undue burden on the already compromised construction. I adjusted my gait, slightly shortening my stride to decrease stress brought on by stretching and pulling. The jeans even got special treatment in the washing machine, spinning solo through gentle cycles.

The days of cautiousness proved futile, however, as my dungarees continued to deteriorate. My closet contained several pairs of pants, but I passed them over like a chef with a favorite carving knife. And today, I stand in the entryway to a bank, my once magnificent pants in ruin; a product of my own denial.

Money in hand, I turn toward the door. There’s a woman approaching. She’s dressed professionally in an ice-blue business suit, ATM card out ready to swipe her way into the vestibule. I open the door as she arrives stepping back to let her pass and to conceal my exposed underwear. She smiles and thanks me, but the smile evaporates when she sees my tattered pants. Annoyed, and still stung by the sudden sense of loss, I open my mouth to say something. But what can I say? How could she ever understand? I walk away as the door clicks shut behind me, no longer concerned about what has been exposed.

At home, I hold the pants up turning them around for final measure. An autopsy won’t be necessary. The fatal wounds, the cause of death, are obvious.

The postmortem complete, I throw on some sweats and carry the pants outside where I toss them into the garbage. A faded pant leg hooks the rim of the trash can then slides downward disappearing like a hand pried from a cliff.

Back inside, I fan the dungarees in my closet. They feel stiff and resentful like a column of cold shoulders. I can’t blame them, having been cooped up and neglected for so long. I step back and close the door thinking maybe we’ll all feel better tomorrow. They’re probably just nervous, one of them’s going to have a really tough act to follow.