Goodbye to your favorite jeans

Love at first sight, that was it. Even though you weren't particularly strikingly handsome or anything. Just good. What am I saying? Perfect. I met you on Robertson Boulevard in Los Angeles. Then it's easy to fall in love, of course. I had lunch at The Ivy with Anouk Smulders and then I cycled past a shopping mall for a bit. And there you were. Modestly, you waited for the moment we were introduced. In an environment full of outspoken types, you were a bit shy, but everything about you was right. Everything about us.

You didn't have any crazy holes and just a hem. No frayed edge that was cut with a bread knife and for which you then paid top dollar. You had the perfect wash: not too flashy, but also not boring. It ended right at my ankle.

What I also liked about you was that you fit in everywhere. From LA to the countryside in Southern Italy, at a trendy fashion party with Jimmy Choos underneath or with Uggs in the dunes of Bloemendaal. Secretly, you were also a bit my scale. If a bit of coziness bulged over the waistband, I had to cut back on Chardonnay and chocolate. If everything flowed in a straight line, then I was extra happy.

But now, now it seems that an end has come to us. When I bend down, you tear. And not in a trendy way, but as if you want to tell me: we had a good time together. It was intense, but now it's over. I've decided that today is our last day together. But throwing you away, I can't do that. I’ll put you in a corner of my closet so I can look you up again. Just, when I really need it.