Every six months, I weed out my rather paltry wardrobe. Shed a pair of boxers I procured from Structure in 1996, discard that cream-colored men's extra small USA Atlanta windbreaker I bought from the Eastbay catalogue back when my aol screenname was "gtothe3" and my favorite website was "blackass.com/pics.html" (which proved particularly noteworthy when I once borrowed by dad's loner laptop, unaware that the defense contractor he worked for tracked employee internet usage).
Whenever I begin this semiannual sartorial tradition, I find that there is one item I'm incapable of jettisoning...
These threadbare charcoal grey jeans that I used to wear all the time.
The reason why is is that I always think to myself that if my girlfriend needed me to paint a room in her new apartment, these would be ideal painter's pants. Casual, fuck-upable, but not without a debauched air of former greatness.
The thing is I don't have a girlfriend. And I've never painted anything in my life. If a room actually needed painting, I'd hire someone. Whenever a friend asks me to help them paint, I rebuff their obnoxious imposition, because I'm both paranoid about inhaling chemicals and I know I'd do a shitty job. If my dad, who has a Protestant work ethic and is skilled at this kind of shit, found out that I was even tangentially connected to the painting of a new room, I would still hire someone to do it, and then either lie to him and pretend I did it myself or say that I got a "great deal" when I actually picked the most expensive, most convenient and least Mexican option I could find.
Which is why I can never get rid of these jeans. These mere pants that somehow, by dint of their existence in my closet and not in some trash-heap, offer the promise of a fresh future in which I'm handy, magnanimous, and honest.