Breach

It happened. sometime between Friday night and Sunday morning. I torn my jeans. Right on the left knee. I had no choice I had to wear them to work, as they are currently the only pair of pants that fit me. So there I am, at work. I have a professional job and while I'm not required to wear slacks or a tie, I always try to maintain a clean and neat appearance.

A tear in your jeans cancels out any plus you would have received from a clean, pressed, tucked in dress shirt. I'm having flashbacks to high school. There were days that I was begging my pants to tear, willing them to rip. In high school a few well placed holes were the desire of everyone I knew.

It meant that your parents didn't love you enough to care what you were wearing. It meant you didn't love yourself enough to care what your parents thought. It meant that you, and your torn pants, couldn't be loved. It meant you were a tortured soul living in a world you couldn't understand, a world that refused to understand you. It meant, you were cool.

It probably didn't help that I graduated high school at the hight of the grunge era and no one, I repeat no one, looked grungy in neat, clean, whole pants. Luckily I grew up and shed my mindless jean tearing ambitions to the wayside. You laugh but there are still plenty of 'cool' people running around begging for holes in their pants. I now see that we were right all along. I totally don't understand them.

So here I am a professional in grunge attire. Trying not to look too cool for my geek image. All in all I believe it's a task that I'm more than up to. It's funny when you think about it though, because the hole is the same as it was ten years ago, just a rip in the denim at the knee. It's only my perspective that's changed.