Necessary Evils

Me... and them..

As a rule I do not make friends with my friends’ boyfriends. Time and experience has taught me that once my friends break up with these unfortunate fellas I will be left with a back log of guys who I have no idea how to deal with. We obviously can’t be friends anymore... so now you’ll just be the awkward Facebook friend who I have no idea what to tell.

Though I do not make friends with my friends’ other halves, I make a point to be amicable. I smiled to hide my shock at the one who blatantly announced his love for Bongo music; I was civil to the one who had a definite ‘serial killer’ air around him; I even forgave that one who had never heard of Coldplay (How the hell???). The things we do for love...

However, once in a while I run into that special one... that boyfriend who seems to be on a mission to earn my ultimate dislike... that one who keeps poking at my porcelain poker face hoping it will crack... that one who won’t settle for my indifference, who feels he needs to earn my dislike as well. Of all the men in the world, my best-friend had to choose this one.

I admit that I am cynical, judgmental and hard to please... but my saving grace is that my instincts are almost always right... so I am almost always cynical and judgmental to people who deserve it. And he, let’s call him Mark, deserves it. I can forgive a multitude of wrongs, ranging from poor fashion sense, poor taste in music... even the ultimate sin: the inability to complete reading a book. I figure that people can’t help being who they are. However, I cannot forgive anyone who hurts the people I love. So I have prepared a special something for Mark.

We should probably skip the pleasantries, seeing as I cannot see any way for me to ever like you. Unfortunately, my best friend feels that you are special... and deserving of a second chance. Of course she does... she loves you. You can bask in the light of that revelation but you should also live knowing that you don’t deserve her. If I were you I’d spend every day trying to earn that which she is offering you.

In the meantime I will have you know that the next time she calls me crying and hurting, there will be hell to pay. Don’t snicker at me. I know I can’t do much damage to you but if I have to I can conjure up a mob of sorts... probably one or two rugby players, a frustrated boxer, and on a good day maybe a former Mungiki.  And yes, this is a threat, though I feel my tone of voice would go so far as to make it assault. Really, I feel as if I have outdone myself.

This has been a great talk. We can now go back to sulking in our respective corners. You, to feel sorry and miserable. Me, to watch The Borgias in a bid to borrow a leaf from the original crime family on how to make a death look like an accident.

Clearly that conversation will never happen because unfortunately, contrary to popular opinion, not every Kikuyu has a menacing felon willing to do their dirty work. I mean, I know a few people from Githurai but that’s about it. All I can do is live up to the fable of the perfect friend who’s there to offer a shoulder and listen to sob stories. However, between me and you, I am collecting a portfolio of possible Mark replacements. You know, just in case. So far my criteria list is three items long: male, cute and alive... but I am working on it.


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Jeans...Blue Jeans...


The year was 1853... I have no idea what date it was, and it doesn't really matter. A 24 year old German immigrant left New York for San Francisco to chase a dream. Young people were evidently much more entrepreneurial and adventurous than they are now. The young man set out with some canvas to sell as tents and wagon covers but found that the farm workers and miners in San Francisco had more pressing needs... like pants. And young Levi Strauss used the canvas to make overalls. That, ladies and gentlemen, was how jeans were born.

Of late, I have been reading blog posts addressed to men. You know the kind where in the first paragraph the blogger asks any women reading to please vacate the site before HE proceeds to babble on about a topic that the fairer sex is better versed in anyway. Yes, even if the topic has something to do with manhood, we are still equally if not better equipped to discuss it. So today I decided to write a post that will make the darker (I am assuming that is the appropriate opposite of ‘fairer’ to use here.) sex uncomfortable... and no, it has nothing to do with tampons. This post is about jeans... a woman and her pair(s) of jeans.

Those crude things that Levi fashioned from canvas eventually took over the world. They went from garments that were only worn by manual laborers and were generally banned in respectable places like restaurants and cinema halls to a fashion statement that is pulled off by everyone everywhere. In fact, that’s the beauty of jeans. They can be worn by anyone, and if worn right, they can make all the difference.

I firmly believe that every woman/girl has THAT PAIR of jeans. The one you knew you belonged with the first time you laid eyes on it. THAT PAIR with perfect stitches and smooth fabric... Strong enough to survive all those ‘excursions’ yet soft to the skin. THAT PAIR that fit just right and brought out just enough of all the right features. THAT PAIR that has seen it all.
I have such a pair of jeans. A blue skinny that I bought at eNGARAsha. I was laundering it earlier today when I got thinking of how much we've been through together... me and my jeans. It’s the one pair I instinctively reach out for whenever I need my moods lifted. This may sound absurd but it’s true: that pair is my very own ‘travelling pants’. No matter what size I get, it still fits just right.
I have been told that I am overly sentimental, with a tendency to hold on to insignificant things like really old journals, letters and photos. I also have an unhealthy relationship with my phone and laptop. I suppose you can add my jeans to that list too. All the same, here’s to insignificant little things that make all the difference. For you it might not be a pair of jeans (though I wonder how the hell not)... but whatever garment it is, wear it with love and take time to feel absolutely beautiful in it.

The men can now stop pretending to be gagging and admit that they too have that special pair of pants, or shirt, or even suit.

Jeans represent democracy in fashion.
Giorgio Armani
Blue jeans are the most beautiful things since the gondola.
Diana Vreeland



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