the end (or, looking at my crotch)

I have a hole in the crotch of my favorite jeans. I'm wearing them right now. But I'm at the public library, so it's cool.  We're all a bit tattered here.

These jeans fit me very well. They are torn in all the right places. They are just the right color. They hang on my waist just the way I like. Sure there's the crotch issue, but I don't really care. It's a discrete transgression.

These jeans weren't always this way. When I bought them they were too blue, too stiff, too tight. Inspired by this video, I decided to try to make a pair of jeans my own with time as opposed to spending the time buying the perfect pair of jeans from the get go. I saved a lot of money and got to test a psychological/economic theory. That's my kind of thing. I'm almost 5 years into the experiment and I can safely say it's been a success.

These jeans have been through countless washes. Fell down a hill sledding. Yard work. Crawling after babies.  Wrestling with kids.  Sitting at the bottom of a hamper. They (it's awkward to refer to jeans in the plural, isn't it?) have been dressed up with a nice blazer. They've been puked on by babies and children. I remember when I first got them. I took them into the seamstress and she rolled her eyes when I asked to keep the original hem and add red thread. Looking at them now, they may look like another old worn pair of jeans. But they're so much more.

So is the tattered guy at the table in front of me here at the public library. His hair's probably unkempt for a reason. It's a statement. I can relate. The necklace he is wearing is not by mistake. He did not get it at a pawn shop. He's wearing it too comfortably. It means something to him. Maybe given to him by a daughter, or granddaughter. His watch is old and plastic. Maybe he can't afford a new one. Or maybe he doesn't like change. He's wearing expensive New Balance tennis shoes. He cares about his feet. Why? Gout? A runner (or former runner)? Or maybe his feet just hurt. His glasses are nice too. He is writing incessantly. He's using a cheap plastic Bic mechanical pencil. Blue. The eraser is worn. He makes lots of mistakes when he writes. I can relate. I want to go closer and peek, but that would be rude. I mean, ruder than sitting here staring at him and recording my observations. I have standards. Nondescript green sweatshirt. His life has been rich and hard and beautiful. Maybe he's a psychopath. Maybe he's a nobel laureate.

When I was younger people got a label. I still do this, but not as much. We all do this to simplify and categorize people. It's convenient and helps us make sense of the world. Taken to an extreme it becomes racism, bigotry, hatred. But checked, it's actually helpful. It helps us make snap decisions when necessary. (And we exist as a species as a result: "That thing is big and hairy and fast. It's a bear! Get the hell out of here!!").  **My guy is leaving. Did he see a bear? Oh man, he just put on the most amazing furry winter hat.  He's a connoisseur (label). I want to follow him out of the library (Prius or windowless white van!?), but again, standards.**  Ok, back to the labels. The label meant something. Not necessarily negative, just a descriptor that gave me some context. Single mom. Married. Old. Gay. Grouchy. Warm. Dying. Depressed. Fat. Divorced. While some of the labels were indeed negative, that's really not the worst part. The worst part is that I focused merely on the end, and derived all meaning from the person's current state. No history. No story. No evolution. Now that I've watched people become depressed, go through divorce, die, fail, succeed, overcome, I know that we are so much more than the current end. We go through stuff. And our current end is not (for most of us) the final end. We will continue to transcend and trade in labels.

I'm a big believer in suspending judgement. Probably because I'm inclined to pass it so quickly. It's an impulse that I work hard to suppress. These jeans. These people. They have a history. There's a reason for the holes, the wear and tear, the perfection and the destruction. The jeans I'm wearing now are a product of time and experience.

And so is the guy in the green sweatshirt.