Me and My Jeans

She slips her jeans on as easy as taking a glass of water.

She turns the faucet on, strumming her lithe fingers under the water as if that motion makes it colder, takes the glass, fills it up with crisp, clear, icy water and simply slips it down her precious throat.

Simplicity, without much thought, like how Jimi would make love to his guitar. Strumming his fingers up & down in all the right places, without a plan, just him and his guitar.

As a little girl, a self-proclaimed tomboy* who dressed up like a cowboy, played with trucks, Matchbox cars and GI Joe, I pretended my sting ray was a horse. Me and my stingray, complete with banana seat and the colorful streamers at the end of each handle.

I would stroke the streamers pretending that they were his mane, as I biked up & down my street.

I used to jump on & off the bicycle like a cowboy would, even though it had the girly step through frame.

I couldn’t’ wait to watch Wild Wild West on TV. My mom was in love with Robert Conrad, the main character and I realized why at such an early age.

I wanted to be a cowboy. I wanted those chaps, that hat and boots.

I wanted to wear my jeans with those chaps.

Jeans

Dungarees

Denim

Blue jeans

Levi’s

Wranglers

Jeans spoke to me as I watched the Jordache commercials on TV noticing that there was something edgy about how everyone watched them.

A little squirmier, was when I watched people watch the Calvin Klein advertisement with 15-year-old Brooke. “You want to know what comes in between me and my Calvins? Nothing.”

Okay, I learned about that too.

Slipping on a pair of jeans is truly a God given right in this damn country.

Yet, this sense of freedom is rare for me.

It is the absence of necessity of “no thought” that these advertisements showed off.

Just slip into your jeans and the world is your oyster.

There was no conscious planning to it:

Shake out the jeans, prepare your balance and your choice of leg begins the ritual.

Pointy toe directs the supple smooth calf in, then slowly up to the thigh as the cool cotton glides mercilessly onto your leg and in seconds, they’re on. Zipped. Buttoned. Done.

Fuhgeddaboudit.

There may be one or two times in my life where I slipped on a pair of jeans without thought. Toss on a white blouse and boots and you are set to go.

Jump on the Harley, saddle up on a horse, or slip into the Porsche.

All good. No worries. Not me.

Like Marlon in The Wild One.

Boy, would I have liked to have met his jeans.

I dreamt of being one of the Outsiders.

The book was amazing, and the movie was pure eye candy for me.

Really? Boys in jeans? Soon to be rising stars. OMG.

But if I could just once, be one of them.

I’d drag myself out of bed, run a comb through my hair, grab the jeans off the bedpost and go racing in the streets with them.

It’s about Confidence.

It’s about being present in your body and loving it, loving yourself.

It’s about knowing who you are and knowing that you are your own sexy.

There is no other iconic piece of clothing besides the black leather moto jacket that exudes raw animal lust.

I think when women make themselves up too much, overdo it and wear difficult clothing they are lowering the bar.

They are no match to Norma.

Even dirty cowboy boots.

Oh Norma, be still my heart!

The male struts his stuff, like any Robert Plant photo and those jeans on the front cover of the Stone’s Sticky Fingers, it is their peacocking that gets the girls, with their anima androgynous rock star fit, colorful scarves, eye liner and silk.

So, when Norma is dirty and happy and looking like a tomboy, she is to me is so much sexier than her glam shots, hence her animus is peacocking through in her jeans.

Being messy and sexy in jeans is not the only way to go.

I believe in an almost unbuttoned starch white shirt that barely covers the pristine white lace bra that barely covers the plump pale full breast.

It is like a military uniform. There are many out there, just pick one that suits your fancy.

I want to wake up one morning and not have to decide on which piece of clothing to wear, worry about how it will fit, and wish that I could just not think and slip them on.

Cool glass of water.

Guitar strings.

I don’t have that freedom yet.

I had it once, or many times if one of my selves would just shut the fuck up.

When I grow up, I want to be the woman who feels great enough to wear anything she freaking feels like wearing.

I want to show off that sex appeal that is under all of that…emotional body armor and large, oversized clothing.

And, what the hell, wear whatever I want to wear and swim with the sharks while I’m at it.

In my jeans.

*Tomboy is used specifically for the historical content of my story. This writer in no way used this word to be degrading.

A tomboy is a girl who exhibits characteristics or behaviors considered typical of a boy.

A girl who behaves in a manner usually considered boyish.

“Tomboy.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tomboy.