The day comes once a year.
I've opened them and inspected them and removed the tags and I put them on, and they are giant. They are not shrunk. They are standard prison issue size. And they are rigid. And they are right. And the indigo hasn't washed out of them yet. And I wear them. And I dare the rain to rain on me. If it does, I will lose the ink. I will lose the rigidity. I will lose the size. But I will not lose heart. For I've put on the pants that men have worn for a hundred years before, and they didn't fear the rain, and they built the railroads, and they grew their families, and they wore these jeans.
They put on 501s. Wore the hell out of 'em. Broke them as they broke their backs and soaked them in the sweat of their brow.
I sit at a desk in these. For hours. Pushing pixels. Eschewing callouses. Building hype and building words but not building buildings.
Hoping that the hard working men, the men who don't chase the trends I help propagate, will see my jeans and see my heart. And they will know my past and they will allow me to wear their uniform.
The cycle will repeat again next year and the year after.