Busted Jeans

Leaving troubles behind, for me, means starting from home with a tank of gas, a bit of mad money and no designated destination. An occupant in the passenger seat doubles the prospects for fun on the run.

Morph moments of searing sadness to weekend madness. Such was the goal on a crisp Saturday morning – to hunt for novelty and laughter, to dump details and deadlines, to chill enough to invite sanity to return.

A rumble startled the Saturday stillness. A sonic boom? An earthquake? Then another rumble or two. Some sort of explosion? A phone ring interrupted the ponderings of possibilities.

“We see smoke your direction. Are you okay? Are you burning anything?”

The sirens grew louder and traffic increased as a bit of panic surfaced. Could I have a fire and not know it yet? Though no smoke was visible from any of my windows, I still rushed to follow curiosity’s lead, jumped in the first pair of jeans yanked hastily from the dryer, tugged a sweatshirt over my nightshirt, and jumbled out the door to follow the trail of pumpers and pickups.

Relief! No one was injured; no one lost a home. After making the rounds to share the neighborhood news, I realized it was past time to pick up my guest for Saturday’s ramblings. No time to change. The jeans I nabbed had been my favorites. Now, though, they are bottomless, gaping around the pockets where many outings thinned the denim in the derrière beyond repair. Though wearing jeans that might bare my undies, I was safe; the nightshirt/sweatshirt combo, certainly not one of my finer fashion moments, even for a hippie boomer, completely covered the evidence that I can be a bum and bare one, too. I am adept at bumming around.

Saturday saunterings seldom last past noon, and stops are rare except for quick appearances in beloved country stores for snacks and scratch-offs, stepping back in time where maybe my face is familiar but few know my name. First impressions were forged long ago anyway. Surely I can be accepted now and then as a smiling slob since I smell okay. That’s my philosophy on Saturdays.

This Saturday, however, had to be extended to fully untangle wrangled nerves. A few more miles meant a few more stops in places where our faces were not known. Good thing. These first impressions might take a while to fade. Not only was I camouflaging a bare derrière, but my guest was also sporting one-of-a-kind shoes – one kind on her left foot and another kind on her right, and she was not even checking on a fire!

“Busted Jeans and Mismatched Shoes” could be the title for a country hit. Whaddya think?

About Teresa Pearson Lee

Retired after 33 years of teaching English and French (one year in private school in Memphis, TN and the rest in public school in Doniphan, MO. Enjoying new adventures - all those things I put off for lack of time, energy, now I can try them! Pottery, writing, traveling, camping, kayaking, dancing, listening to some of the best live music ever, and making lively new friendships. All christened with an appreciation for great red wine! Created and operated KC's on the Current, then sold it and managed it for new owners. You might still find me at the reservation desk when spring rolls around. Born and raised in St. Louis, MO near The Hill. Though a transplant to Southeast Missouri, still a city gal at the core with a deep love of the natural resources in these Ozark foothills. Currently I am a content coordinator for Poplar Bluff Living Magazine and a columnist/stringer for the local weekly The Prospect News. My rescue Siamese helps with most of the proofreading; he has a great ear. I relish the solitude easily had in the Mark Twain Forest but thoroughly enjoy lively outings for music, wine, conversation close to home or in my beloved hometown. Technology is my greatest challenge but so worth the shared connections. There may be a need for solitude but there is little loneliness. The material in this blog written by Teresa Lee is her property and cannot be used without express written consent to do so.
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