I cleaned my wedding rings today. I do that every decade or so. Turns out they’re diamonds. Who knew?! Ten years of caked on soap scum is pretty impressive. I’ve been carrying that soap scum around for so long, I felt a bit nostalgic when it washed down the drain. I was thinking of keeping it much the same way we keep the kid’s baby teeth. Compare to the after picture. You can see where the soap scum was caked under the middle diamond. (Ewwww.)
I’ve been off the sugary snacks for a week now and my muffin top is mostly gone. Sure, my weight stayed the same over the Christmas debauchery, but it all melted away from my muscles and redistributed itself to my stomach. Why won’t it go somewhere useful, like to my eyelashes? And who thought up the dumb idea of low rise jeans anyway? I have a pair of high-waisted Mom jeans that are lined with fleece that I use when I’m shoveling snow. Those are the most comfortable jeans ever. But they’re so ugly. I wonder what it’s like not being vain. I’m sure the clothes are more comfortable.
Speaking of saving things and ugly clothes, I’ve decided to save my exercise sweatpants. I have a pair of Darling Husband’s old sweatpants that I wear when I walk on the treadmill. These pants pre-date our relationship so they’re just a touch over 20 years old. They’re a gorgeous puke-green color and have holes in them (so I don’t overheat when I exercise), and they’re artfully adorned with splotches of yellow paint.
I had decided today that I was finally going to replace them with cute exercise clothes, but then I got to thinking: just how long could I keep these pants? Is there some sort of record for holding onto clothes for multiple decades? These pants are older than some of the people who read my blog. Wouldn’t it be cool if I could keep them for another 20 years? 30 years? 40 years?!?
This is how it starts. I told Darling Husband that if I start doing bizarre old lady things he needs to point it out to me while I’m young enough to care. (Eccentric = good, bizarre = bad.) Purposely keeping a pair of pants for 50 years might fall into the bizarre category. But wouldn’t it be a hoot to terrorize the grandkids by pulling out those pants and telling made-up stories about them? “These were the pair of pants your grandfather proposed to me in. Back in the late twentieth century, these were considered high style and they wouldn’t let you in fancy restaurants without wearing pants like these. The maître d’ would supply a pair for you, if you forgot to bring your own. Don’t you ever get rid of these pants. They’re an heirloom.”
Sorta like my wedding rings are an heirloom. They were my mother’s mother’s from when she got married in 1934. (Whoa, are those apostrophes right?) One day, I’ll pass the rings on, along with the sweatpants. And for an extra special treat, I’ll be sure to leave on some soap scum.