A Denim Emergency
Last Thursday was my final full day in London. I checked out of my apartment at 11:00am, and as soon as I closed the door behind me I felt homesick. My tiny studio was exactly what I needed for those first 3 weeks. It was so colorful and full of light, centrally located and cozy; I never felt lonely in it. I wish I could collapse it into a tiny box and take it home with me.
Before I shed everywhere and let my suitcases explode.
I spent my last night packing my bags. It was a little emotional. Even with the knowledge that I'm continuing this great adventure, my heart ached a little bit. It wasn't until I was looking around the apartment, attempting to pick strands of my hair off of my sweaters and dresses, packing all the odds and ends, that I realized I actually lived here. I had reached a point where I no longer felt like a guest, because the apartment was no longer pristine. I felt that comfortable in it. There were tiny pieces of me everywhere - coffee mugs, receipts, and loose change on every surface. It was kind of a mess and it was kind of mine.
. . .
The Tuesday before I left, I woke up at 6:30am (for no real reason other than anxiety). I was already sad about leaving my little London life; I needed a boost. I washed my face. I made some coffee. I put on The Essential Céline Dion. (I'm afraid people might think I'm joking when I talk about what music speaks to me, but I promise you I am very serious.)
I took my clothes out of the dryer, put another load of laundry in, and prepared for a day of getting organized. As I picked out the outfit I would be wearing for the next 2 days (I was packing the rest), I eyed my jeans. I hadn't meant to put them in the dryer. They looked... smaller. This made me nervous. I've inhaled every kind of cheese in my path while I've been away, and if I'm being honest, it's starting to show on my body. Still I like a tight pant, so I was sure it'd be FINE (or that's what I told myself). I put my legs into my jeans and went to pull them up around my waist. I do this move when I'm putting on pants - I pull them up as high as they can go, I squat down, then jump up as high as I can while straightening my legs, and then give the pants one final tug up around my waist. It's never failed me... until now. I'm sure you can guess where THIS "no fail" process (and my pants) fell apart.
The squat... It was the squat.
I had no sooner bent my knees, that my pants ripped about 4-5 inches right down the crotch and up the back. The tearing sound was short and deafening. It was like my pants screamed "NOPE!" And then attempted to depart from my body. As my pants said "NOPE," I said a soft, high pitched "whaaaaat..." Suddenly the plans for my day completely shifted. I wear SPECIFIC jeans. I have found what works and I stick with it because, like any woman, buying anything else is a living nightmare. I was not about to spend one of my last days in London wrestling with UK sizing and throwing my self-esteem into the garbage. My mission was clear: I needed to find a J Brand Denim store.
I threw on some leggings and headed out the door. I didn't feel up to navigating the tube, so I jumped into the first cab I saw. I Google-mapped the store, and directed my driver over to J Brand in Oxford Circus. But there was an issue; he wasn't familiar with my destination.
"The J Brand store on Margaret Street? It's just off Regent Street..." I said.
"I can't picture it. That's a very quiet side of Margaret Street... can't say I know J Brand. What's sent you on this trek today?"
I paused. Do I tell this guy that I split my pants straight up the back? Is that a nugget of information that I need to share with a stranger? Probably not.
"What's sent me on this trek?" I asked back. "Well... um... it's a denim emergency."
I have a knack for attempting to reveal very little information and then giving an answer that prompts additional (and totally warranted) inquisitions. A denim emergency? Definitely not a thing that exists. Of course this guy is going to have follow up questions. He's going to have several of them. I broke down and told him everything: my pulling-up-pants secrets, the 4-5 inch tear, the fact that I've left no wheel of cheese untouched in the last 3 weeks. He couldn't have been kinder. He began to launch into a story.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better..."
I have to pause here and say that the majority of the time someone says "if it makes you feel any better," whatever follows that phrase does NOT make me feel any better. It makes me think "you're right. That sounds f***ing awful... I'm so sorry that happened to you! Now back to the meltdown I'm currently having." I realize this isn't a healthy (or humble) line of thought, but in the interest of being unapologetically myself, I wanted to acknowledge that little truth about me. But back to my driver's story...
"I had a similar experience the other day. I had just picked up a woman and we were headed to Heathrow when my tire blew out. I had a flat. I had to flag down another taxi for this woman, so I lost the fare. I was in a horrible mood. I got out of the car, grabbed the spare, and kneeled down to check the damage.
"As I bent down, I heard a *riiiiiip* and I knew what I had done. I stood up to see where my pants had split and found nothing! I don't mean to offend, but I thought perhaps it was a bit of flatulence sneaking out? And it had simply caught me by surprise? I continued changing the tire, finished up, and went about picking up fares. But I was uncomfortable for the rest of the day! I felt like the Princess with the pea under her mattress. I couldn't get settled in my seat!"
At this point, I was convinced my driver was going to reveal that he had accidentally shat himself.
Not the case.
"I rounded up my day and headed home. When I began to undress, I realized what had torn. There, in the seat of my pants, I found my boxer shorts. They had ripped in at least six different places and into a few separate pieces. They'd exploded away from my body. They couldn't wait to be rid of me! Throughout the day they had collected into a flattened ball of fabric tucked right under my ass... that's what I had been sitting on. As you know, boxer shorts by their very nature are loose fitting clothing. You at least ripped something intended to be tightly worn on the body, something pulled taut. I ripped something that should be flowing. You can imagine the mental state I was in."
I could imagine the mental state. It was (and is) one of the best stories I've ever been told by a stranger. It was one of those rare times when someone sharing their personal pain and embarrassment actually did make me feel better. We pulled up to the storefront reading "J Brand" and I began to count my cash, ready to give this man all my money in return for making me smile.
As you can see, it is nestled among all the other clothing stores, mere blocks from Liberty London...
"Miss, you ARE in the market for pants, is that correct? Not an electrician?"
These seemed like odd parting words. Was this some kind of pick up line? He pointed at the window of the J Brand store across the street, and I realized why he had asked such a bizarre question. J Brand in London is a contractor's shop - they do electrical installations and home repairs. They definitely don't sell jeans. Had this happened to me two weeks ago, I would have dissolved into tears in the back of the cab. But I didn't. Instead I handled it like the mature, sophisticated lady that I am, and I blurted out "are you f***ing kidding me?"
After I let that expletive fly in the cab, I put my hand over my mouth. My driver laughed and turned off the meter. "Take your time finding a new denim shop. I'll get you where you need to be."
I am 100% positive that this man was kind to me because I invited him to be. I was vulnerable, I let him in. If I had been conducting myself the way I do in San Francisco, the way I would have before I left on this trip, that cab driver wouldn't have known I was having a "denim emergency." He probably wouldn't have known anything about me. I would have been so mortified that I didn't do more research about my destination that I totally would have owned being in the market for an electrician and then waited for him to drive away. Once he was out of sight, I would have walked to the corner, flagged down another cab to take me somewhere else, and I never would have acknowledged out loud to a stranger that I am capable of making mistakes. In fact, I would have patted myself on the back for avoiding embarrassment.
. . .
My driver and I sat in the cab together while I looked up which "posh" store might carry my jeans. He gave me a voucher for a free coffee, his phone number for the next time I got turned around in London, and he promised to get me "sorted."
We eventually wound up at Harrods. It's important for you to know that Harrods is 2 blocks from my apartment. I took a $50 cab ride through London to wind up 10 minutes away from my starting location. But I have to say, I wouldn't swap that expensive, time-consuming ride for any short walk in silence. I think being alone with my thoughts after ripping open my jeans would have been the worst thing I could have done. I would have fumed, I would have called myself names; I would have torn myself apart. Instead I was vulnerable with a total stranger, and it remains a highlight of my time in London. I opened up, so HE opened up. We made each other laugh and it was such a comfort to me. I know this all must sound so hokey, and a post about buying new jeans must seem trivial, but it was actually a very pivotal moment.
I have been trying to be brave, and bad ass, and strong all the time, but I'm learning that raising my hand and asking for help can also be all of those things. I feel like I've been looking at the act of seeking assistance as some kind of failure. But it's not. Sometimes leaning on others is necessary. Part of me thinks I'd forgotten that, and part of me thinks I never knew it to begin with.
Am I going to walk around being 100% vulnerable with every stranger I meet all the time? No. Of course not. But in this situation in particular, would there have been any benefit from NOT telling my cab driver that I split my pants? I don't know, but I don't think so. Worst case scenario he savagely sasses me about my cheese addiction or proper denim care... but that really doesn't seem very likely. So here's to opening up and raising my hand, here's to asking for help, and here's to my new jeans.