Last week, I bought a $10 pair of jeans.  P and I were at Tractor Supply checking out goat fencing, and I saw this great pair of overalls – I love me some overalls – but they were $40, and well, $40 right now is a couple weeks worth of groceries. So I went with the $10, and boy, did I get what I paid for.

It's hard to capture their shapelessness in a photo.

It’s hard to capture their shapelessness in a photo.

These babies are one solid color of denim, that sort of blue that is the denim-colored crayon.  They don’t vary in texture or cut – going straight from my hips to my angles in one, only slightly tapered line.  At the waist, I think I can officially say I’ve entered the world where elastic-waisted pants aren’t far behind.

These are my farm pants, and while I would not be caught dead wearing them in the city (or without a long shirt for that matter), I am damn proud of them.

These hideous pieces of denim will work with me in the fields here. Given their cost and their unattractive shape, I won’t mind getting them dirty at all. Plus, they’re thick, thick enough that I can crawl around through briars and not get pricked, and I imagine I won’t rub through the inseam or the knees of these suckers anytime soon.

Plus, they remind me that I am sacrificing some things now to have better things later.  Sure, would those $40 overall have been cuter? Hell, yes. A little fitted tea and some dangly earrings, and I would have been country chic . . . but these babies, they speak of real farming – the kind that involves mud and grease and goat shit.  No more looking the part – I am wearing it.

And that $30 means I’m a tenth of a way closer to one role of goat fencing. Or a sixth of the way there toward putting an underground fence in for Meander so that she doesn’t bring down the wrath of the neighbors again.

So today, when I have just this one trip to the Lovingston library for a book proposal book to insure I’m on the right track with mine for You Will Not Be Forgotten, I’m living the farm large.  Hideojeans, Grandpa’s flannel with fake buttons that hide the velcro behind, a UVa cap tucked tight over my hair that looks like a redneck boy who needs a trim, and my girly polka dotted muck boots.  No shame here . . . just farm pride.

If I’m lucky, M will put some muddy paw prints on my ass, and I”ll be the epitome of God’s Whisper.

Here’s to $10 jeans.