While shedding our Seattle life in preparation for our move to France, we got rid of a lot of shtuff. I went through a few pregnancies and sizes, I optimistically brought my skinny jeans and those things that went with them. Brent gave away a pile of rugby jumpers that were well worn or too big. Both of us cut our clothes down hugely. (okay, Brent more than me) We were headed for a small European house with a small car and small rooms and small everything. We had no intention of farming. And here we are. Doors are getting installed. Business is getting set up. Kids are getting raised. Laundry is backing up. The work around here is dirty. Brent has a supply of work pants, but even those have a limit to how many days they can be worn. After workpants comes the old yuppie-day designer jeans, which don’t handle much beyond meetings, air hockey and Friday beers. So what’s after that? Brent loaded in bricks in his steel-toe boots and jammies. Oh those rugby jumpers would have come in handy right about now and the seemingly endless supply of old jeans.