Dear Marc Jacobs Jeans,

Five or six years ago I found you shopping at "Crossroads Trading Post." It was love at first sight. You and your sisters are generally way beyond my price point - I'd say you usually cost more that my complete ensembles. But, fortunately, some rich chick was trading up - meaning I could get in on her action. You. Anyway, I remember that day, years ago, when I slipped you on and you zipped up nice and smooth. I looked like a skinny little rockstar. You became my new favorites.

Then I moved in with my love (an actual person, not an article of clothing - no need to get jealous). I got really comfy and stopped wanting to run around and just wanted to feed. I grew a bit of "love fat." I was/am really in love. My behind expanded and dropped a little (for love!), my lower back puffed and plopped (amore!).

Marc Jacobs Jeans, why couldn't you just be happy for me? Why did you make me cry?

I'd wince and pull and lay down to zip only to see my flesh erupting on top. I'd wash you cold and violently pull on your waist while still wet, allowing you to air-dry in hopes of making you grow, too. I abused my body and, I guess, along the way I abused you, too. I'm sorry, Marc Jacobs Jeans - truly.

So we separated. You've been at the bottom of my drawer neatly folded. I thought it might lead to the big "D" (not divorce, you're cloth! Donation.). I haven't been able to go out with you in a year, maybe two, if we're honest about how we looked together (really bad).

Imagine my surprise when my regular jeans were getting a little loose. On a lark I thought I'd just look at you. We'd go for coffee. Talk it out. You begged though, you little minx. I slipped off my bagging jeans and slid into you.

It was just like the old days. Love. Sleek. Rockstar.

xoxo
Caroline