embracing willendorf: chapter seven levi is not short for leviticus
by byron ballard

Few people can understand my obsession with owning a pair of Levi’s. My daughter cannot disguise her disdain for my name-brand folly, but there it is. They’re not the most stylish jeans, not the most economical jeans. What is it about Levi’s that has me checking them out in every shop that carries them? Why is it I now know the numbers? I’m wearing 577s but aching for a pair of 501s.

I grew up poor in a world where girls wore cotton dresses, or shorts and a shirt or denim overalls. I didn’t start wearing jeans until high school (and for the first couple of years, girls weren’t allowed to wear pants to school unless it was very cold) when I wore a size 18 that was purchased at a local discount store called Sky City.

I remember the sales clerk was dismissive of me when I wanted a pair of blue jeans when my choices were burgundy and purple. If she wore something smaller, she’d have more choices, she told my mother, as though I weren’t there.

What can you expect with jeans that big? What I expect, my adult self says to that long-ago bitchy saleswoman, (who no doubt had problems of her own and wasn’t making as much money as the men who worked in the same job and maybe had a husband who wasn’t worth a plugged nickel) who decided to take it out on a fat teenager who just wanted a pair of blue jeans, what I expect is to be treated with a little respect and not talked to as though I’m stupid. I wasn’t stupid then and I’m not stupid now. The difference is, then I was fat and young. Now I’m slim and old enough to speak my mind. Long before I started the Willendorf Program, I dropped the passive in passive-aggressive. It feels like heaven, by the way. I advise you to try standing up for yourself. It’s worth the discomfort.

Now back to those Levis. Even if I could have fitted into them, such expensive jeans were out of the question on our budget, so I made do with burgundy no-name denim pants. It wasn’t long before I discovered the comfort of men’s jeans and switched my allegiance to the other side. I wore men’s jeans for years, adjusting the too-big waist while enjoying the give in the rise. As a seamstress, I learned to make the adjustments with a minimum of bother and didn’t think any more about it. Until about 40 pounds ago, when I tried on a pair of loose-fitting Levi’s in a generous size 18. They fit and were quite comfortable. The ratio of waist to hip was good and I had lots of upper thigh room. Perfect. I bought a pair of 16’s to grow into. And then a pair of 14’s and then a pair of 12’s. You want to know what I’m lusting after now? A pair of button-fly 501’s. Size 10. As soon as they go on some sort of sale at my favorite department store, I’ll acquire them. And, at some point in the not so distant future, I will wear them. With a sleek little shirt that shows a little belly and a smidge of cleavage. I’ll look good and feel better. And I can be compassionate towards that long-ago saleswoman and that fat teenager who just wanted some jeans.

A brief coda to the Levi’s story came from my sister-in-law in Atlanta. My nephew came down to breakfast one morning when we were visiting and his mom asked him if he was still blue. He was wearing shorts and grinned a big goofy grin. We looked at his legs and sure enough they were palest blue. Seems he hadn’t washed his new Levi’s before wearing them and had played a damp game of football the day before.

I figured it was like wearing woad in the olden days—a badge of a warrior’s honor.