At the store, she hands me two pairs of jeans—the first pair blinds me. It is so white.
“Really?” I ask. “White?”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her thinking.
“Yes, white. Do you not see that they are white? Why are you asking me white? Because you’re a thousand years old, maybe?”
“Are white jeans a good idea?” I press on, knowing how I sound. White jeans are never a good idea, but she’s young and beautiful and white jeans look fantastic and that’s the point. It’s like I’ve never been young in my whole life. Really.
“Yes,” she says, with remarkable restraint.
And I know that I should drop it, but I can’t.
“You know as soon as you eat spaghetti and meatballs, the jeans will be stained.”
“Or if you sit on some dirt.”
“Or you could spill juice on your lap.”
She ignores me for the most part. She packs the white jeans on her weeklong class trip to New Orleans.
“Don’t wear them when you eat jambalaya!” I tell her. “Or gumbo.”
“Fine,” she says. Fine is teenager for fuck off, in case you’re wondering.
I say good bye and she and the white jeans head to the Big Easy for a week. And although I miss my daughter, I don’t worry about the white jeans. They’re just jeans. White jeans. Sometimes you have to let go a bit.
And then when she comes back, reluctant hugs and all, she smiles a little and says.
“So, the white jeans.”
“Well, they got a little dirty.”
“We toured a swamp and-“
Did I have the restraint not to say “OMG, DID YOU WEAR A WHITE PAIR OF JEANS TO THE SWAMP? DID YOU NOT THINK THAT A SWAMP COULD BE SWAMPY? DEAR LORD!”
If you said yes, you must be new here.
Welcome. My name is Marinka and I have two lovely kids. My son is 10 and loves baseball. My daughter is 13 and wears white jeans to the swamp.
One year ago ...
- Sheets - 2014