Who doesn’t own a pair of jeans?

You? Don’t lie. I’ll bet you eat in them, sleep in them, run in them, groove in them. You just want to drown your sexy legs in them. Everybody does. Jeans are the epitome of fun, the embodiment of allure, the essence of all that is ridiculous, wild, and crazy. Sure, cargo pants are practical, dress pants are double-oh-seven, sweat pants are comfy but why even consider them when there are jeans? Uncomfortable? Insolent? Impractical? Hell no. Chic. Bold. Fantabulous. Don’t agree? Guess you’re just not rock star enough ‘cause laughter, love, and living, that’s what it’s all about.

First, learn to laugh. Laugh out of pure joy. BAM! We’re here. Feeling like we’re living the teenage dream in our faded jeans, we pant as we reach the top of Mont Ventoux, a legendary climb, part of the Tour de France. On an impulse, the group of us decided, what the heck. Sounds like fun. And now, we are at the top. Our jeans are muddy, our skin grimy, our hair in knots, but as our smiles shine, our laughter echoes, and our hearts feel accomplished, we couldn’t have cared less.  Time to rule the world, might as well give us the crowns and capes now. First things first though, take out the stereo, blast that music, g-get up and dance!

We learn to love – and unlove. I did as three little birds sat on my window and they told me that I don’t need to worry. Summer was coming like cinnamon, so sweet. In my skin tight jeans, I wrap my arms around my legs on the window seat. Though he hasn’t called in days, the seams embrace me, the denim hugging my skin. It’s all good. I stare out at the sunset, watching as the dark blue slowly erodes away the warmth. Yet the sun still shines, the wind still blows, and the second hand still ticks. I hope he gets his dreams, but I don’t want to fall for another moment into his gravity. I embrace it as I shimmy out the door in my skinny jeans. Really, who cares?

After we master the laughing and loving, we finally start living. I woke up one morning, feeling like Madonna. Grabbed my sunglasses, headed out the door and I hit the city. In my jeans, I walked across the Golden Gate, feeling almost as spectacular as the thirty-five million dollar suspension bridge in my new bellbottoms. I paused and gazed at the water, at the rising sun, at the horizon and felt the denim wrap around my waist, cling to my thighs, whip about my shins. There was no better feeling. Looking behind me at the cars rushing by, I strut down the sidewalk, showing off to the world.

So, learn to live a little. Stop reading these stupid articles, get up and jump into those jeans. Do whatever you want. Eat whatever you crave. Buy whatever you like. Say whatever you think. And raise your glass because you’re wrong in all the right ways. We all are. If you don’t own jeans, though, you’re just plain wrong. So go get a pair.

And party like a rock star.