The second year I lived in Germany I found my dream pair of jeans. They were tight in all the right places and they fit. I wore them every day. Every day. I am not kidding. If they were not clean, well then I would stay home.

I love my jeans.

After a few months in Berlin I realized I needed another pair. It almost seemed like a fluke that I a. had found these jeans on sale and b. the jeans fit. I went back to the same store and found another similar pair, only these were slightly smaller. I was losing weight and figured that I would be wearing them in no time.

I am still not wearing those jeans, however they sit in my closet, even though I have a firm rule that clothing that looks bad, has not been worn, or is out dated be donated. Another pair sits in my closet too. These are from 10th grade however. When I bought them I thought I looked fat in them. I look back on that person with a hint of pity. What I would not give to have a 32 inch waist. Well, apparently, I would not give up food.

This year’s resolution was to get in shape and learn about health. I have a trainer I see twice a week, my knees feel great, I have recently joined Weight Watchers. I am doing this the slow way.

Doing what? Appeasing my Grandmother who constantly talks about “getting all that weight off?” Merely trying to get in shape, so I can ski and bike and do the things I like to? Trying to get my doctor to ask me how I lost weight if it was not via his just eat 1200 calories a day plan?

I have a job that is interesting, and has the potential to make the world a better place. There is only one problem with the job: I can’t wear jeans, ever. Every year we have an opportunity to tell the administrator of our agency what we would like to see done; a giant suggestion box if you will. I want to scream loud and clear: if I could wear jeans to work I would NEVER leave this job. Never.

But wait, I left a jeans job, to go to law school. Why did I do that again?

I like to wear jeans because they are comfortable, I look good in them, I feel good in them, and I notice when I gain or lose weight while wearing them. Other cloths are too forgiving. In other clothes, I can cover up problem sports, or just wear black for weeks on end. Jeans offer none of those comforts. Yet, it is to my jeans I turn to with excitement every Saturday morning.

So are the jeans really just a symbol of freedom? Of my ability to tell the Man that I don’t have to conform to his world, of my inability to not conform to his world.

The jeans worn daily in Berlin are too tight these days too. But they are zippable, which is more than they were at the beginning of the year.

Zippable: the act of being able to lay on your bed, with lungs empty, and zip up your pants. Said pants cannot be worn out of the house, or out of the bedroom really, because of problems with fainting.

I am working on zipping the jeans and wearing the jeans as part of this year’s resolution.

(I wrote this as part of my writing class.)

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