Mutinous Jeans

My teen son owns a certain pair of jeans that he loves. Needless to say, I dislike them with a passion. His love of the jeans has nothing to do with a fashion trend; they are more of an anti-trend. They are his favorite brand, they fit him just right, they are worn-in and comfortable. He has worn them to pretty much every single place he has been, including church, restaurants, and trips out of town—much to my horror. What could possibly be so nasty about a pair of jeans?

As I said, they are worn in. So much so, that they have a gaping tear on one leg, shredded heels and thread-bare patches on the front. Oh, and did I mention the blood stains from hunting and the traces of various liquids from his tinkering in the garage? I have promised to patch the tear to make them presentable. I just haven't gotten around to it. I have a pair of spare jeans to cut a patch from, but it's one of those projects that keeps being pushed to the end of my priority list.

Once, when I was giving him a ride somewhere, I noticed a block from home that he was wearing the detestable garment. I looped back around and headed home, refusing to take him. He reluctantly changed, but a war was underway.

The last time I washed the jeans, I emptied about half a spray container of stain remover onto them. It helped. Now they are clean and ratty. I took my son to the store where we purchased them, hoping to trade them for a new version; the store doesn't carry the exact same pair anymore.

It's not that my son owns no other jeans. One day, I decided I would hide the jeans until I patched them, forcing my son to wear one of his other pairs. By the end of day one, his urgency for the wretched slacks grew to a point where he was able to rationalize his urgent need. He wanted to walk the dog through muck, so he needed them, not wanting to ruin his nicer jeans. Sounded reasonable.

After the walk, back into the wash they went. This time, I hid them in a different location. My son didn't even ask where they were. He merely searched the house and found them without any trouble.

I don't mind his owning and wearing that one mutinous garment, afterall. It's his bold statement that I do not have complete dominion over him. That's a good thing. One day he’ll need that determination to venture out on his own, to chart a course through the unknown galaxies of adulthood. Besides, I recall owning a pair of ratty jeans not that long ago myself.