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Spinfinity

July 29, 2014

If life were a washing machine, we’d be the dirty laundry. We’d be the blue jeans and cotton undershirts and mismatched socks and in some special instances the sexy lingerie.

If you looked back far enough you would see the garment emerge from its factory womb to be chosen by a benefactor and welcomed into a family. Jeans tend to fit well into society. Some garments become orphans, but they all get dirty. Ultimately, not fit to be worn, they land in laundry purgatory and are subjected to the maelstrom.

This is death, make no qualms about it. Poison, suffocation, and drowning, followed by a roller coaster incubation in the heart of darkness. Then it starts again.

This journey may be very similar to the last. The inhabiting body may treat the jeans with great reverence; fold them carefully and only wear them to special events. They may have a long and satisfying life. They may return to the spin cycle reluctantly, unwilling to let go of their current incarnation.

And indeed the next time through will be slightly different. The jeans may get lumped with the rest of the pants. They might not get folded or be worn once and forgotten or mistakenly land in the dirty pile, an accidental jeanocide.

Now they have the fabric of an old soul. The right knee is frayed. The zipper doesn’t stay up like it should. The back pocket has grown a hole the size of a wine cork. But just when things are getting funky, funky is getting fashionable.

The jeans are brought to a garment exchange and find their way into new hands. Colorful patches are applied. The zipper is replaced. Suddenly life is bursting from their seams! A certain pride envelops the clothing/wearer symbiosis. They identify with each other. This is who we are, they say. And they hold on.

The jeans get dirty. They aren’t washed. They get torn, tattered, and frayed, but their essence remains. More patches are applied. The belt loops are replaced with suspender straps. But despite the updating and customization there’s no escaping the fact that the jeans are old. It seems each excursion requires a trip to the tailor. They get shelved once again for special occasions.

And then one day someone throws them in the wash for no reason whatsoever. They emerge a shattered mess, unwearable by the loosest definition. The suspenders are enmeshed with the hole in the knee and the new zipper is jammed with thread. Neither needle nor knife can rebuild the pantaloons.

In a solemn act of triage the legs are removed and hemmed with ruffles. Now the jeans are booty shorts, their pockets dangling like testicles, a tribute to adaptation. They’ve never been closer to their wearer. They haven’t known such unity since leaving the factory womb so long ago. Here they are, draped around the entrance to the holy birthing chamber, hip to the spinfinite, never more content or detached in their lives.

If enlightenment is the knowledge of one’s place in the universe, booty shorts have it going on.

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From → Rants

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