My first love...

“It’s funny,” I told myself, “how we get attached to things and people we never knew we needed in our lives.” And I held my hands high and expected the Heavens to pour their grace over me.


My palms were sweating, my breathing failed to reach its average pace, and a weird smirk must have betrayed my thoughts. I got in return a warm smile, one that, in hindsight, I failed to read it as a kind of masked sorrow. And yet that one moment meant everything to me. That moment was the happiness that only a bite into the forbidden fruit could have delivered.


I felt guilty, and yet I couldn’t hide my excitement, and I sensed chills rushing through my every pore and building into goosebumps.


“Close your eyes!” I was told.


I did, but one rebel eyelid felt the need to spark betrayal.


“Close them! Both of them!”


I finally gave in, and my darkness made room to bouncing thoughts that were poking the unknown. “Why is it taking so long? How would it feel? Should I be scared? Would others be envious? Happy? Would I truly be as happy as I hoped I would?”


Then a soft touch cut short my thoughts’ racket — smooth bliss.


I took a deep breath, gathered all my nerves into a tight knot in the back of my throat, and my wide-open eyes shot out a small tear that failed to hide my body’s overcharged-with-emotions state.


“This is how love feels like; this is how others feel like daily and take it all too much for granted.”


Stupid eyes failing to keep my tears in - I cried.


“Are you OK? Are you happy?”


I was only able to nod, or maybe I mumble something that must have translated into a demand for hugs. I got one right away, and my mom kept me in there for what it felt like an eternity.


“Remember, you’re only allowed to wear them in the house!”


My sobbing ‘uh-huh’ transformed itself into a smile larger than life.


“Can I try them on?”


“Sure.”


Five seconds, 327 milliseconds later I was wearing my first blue jeans. First ever. The first I saw in reality. The first I touched. The first I revered.


Back as a child, in a communist life, where blue jeans were the “westerner’s propaganda and forbidden items in our beloved society” I wore my first ones. I begged for something like that ever since I remembered seeing them in a cowboy movie. I dreamed about them. I made up scenes in which I was the envy of the whole village. I worshipped them and gave them a life beyond their apparel rank.


A friend of a friend of a friend of my parents was smuggling over the Hungarian border whatever he could get his hands on.


My first blue jeans!


I loved them more than words can describe. I even liked the huge flowers that were covering my buttocks.

“Cowboy’s flowers,” I told myself.


I didn’t even care when in spite of my mother’s warning, wearing them outside delivered me a swift reply:

“Those are girls’ pants!”


...My first blue jeans. My first love.

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