Today at work, an older woman (mid-to-late-60s) asked me for my opinion. Me, being full of opinions, obliged. She emerged from the fitting room in a pair of bootcut jeans with embellishment on the back pockets. They weren't overly blingy or whiskered; they were dark, simple, age-appropriate. I liked them. I told her I did.
She wanted to be sure she looked nice in them, especially from the back. She went on to tell me that her husband told her that he was going to burn her old jeans because he couldn't see her figure in them. He also wanted her to get ones that hugged and lifted her butt.
"I mean, these are tighter than normal," she said. "He just loves to see my body." She shook her head with incredulity at the notion.
"I guess if these don't work, they'll just go in the fire too."
I laughed and told her I thought it was cool that he still wanted to see the shape of her body. She smiled and nodded her head in agreement.
It was then I was reminded of the persistence of love.