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Got up today feeling sort of pitiful, so I dragged out my oldest pair of jeans. They are almost twelve years old now. They’ve lost what fashion sense they may have started life with, but they are sooo comfortable. Jeans worn until the material is actually soft to touch, a brushed softness that no amount of prep can really duplicate. I wear them sparingly now because I know their days are numbered. The inner seam of the thigh now has a hole that is high enough up and big enough that wearing them out of the house is a debatable wisdom. These jeans are to me what a pair of sweats or a favorite pair of jammies are to other people. They are my comfort pants, that you wear because they feel good, not because you give a damn what you look like. I just plain feel better in them. I’m going to take my favorite pair of jeans and the body wearing them upstairs to bed. I’m beat, and not in a good happy way. So tired, but I made it through the whole day without a nap. That’s good. It must be the jeans.