Last week in this space, I reminisced about measuring up to the appearance standards that American Airline stewardesses were subject to in the old days. And yes, although some of it stuck, I’m happy to report that occasionally getting down and dirty has its rewards.

Over the past year of COVID confinement, like many of us did, I cleaned out closets and drawers. Retirement had pushed me to a realization – my work clothes stopped working when I did. The sheer volume of the clothes I wore to the office over eleven years took up too much space. I have enough trouble dealing with a lifetime accumulation of house “stuff” without becoming a jacket hoarder. I like to take them to Dress for Success in Erie, a charity that outfits women for job interviews and their first full week at work.

Then something wonderful happened. I opened a storage box that I thought was sweaters, and found my long-missing paint clothes. The box contained five tops and three pairs of pants, all evidence of close relationships with Benjamin Moore and Sherwin-Williams. This discovery of my old paint duds was heaven sent. I needed a “new” generation of grubby garden clothes.

I have to share a little side story here: I am a bit of an Anglophile. I admire the proper way the English do things, especially their gardening. English ladies weed and water in fetching hats and floral skirts. They look crisp – even their garden gloves look clean. When I began gardening, I aspired to that look too.

Years ago, when I lived in Wellsville, New York, I had a gardener friend who actually did look that way. One June morning, I was removing my son from his highchair after eating breakfast. The doorbell rang, and there was nothing to do but answer it. Betty knew I was home.

Unwashed, unbrushed and embarrassed, I answered the door in my stained bathrobe – the baby on my hip also unwashed, unbrushed and heavily oatmealed. Betty, looking like the MGM version of an English gardener, wore a silk blouse, a flowing skirt, garden clogs and a floppy straw hat. She was carrying a flat basket, full of cut flowers from her garden. “Oh, my, you’re out and about early,” I said.

Tanned, glossy and elegantly perfumed, Betty smiled, “Oh, not at all. I teed off at dawn, played nine holes, completed my correspondence before my shower, and then headed for the garden. I thought you might enjoy these,” as she offered me the basket. It was 8:05 a.m.

For a split second, I thought of inviting her in for coffee. I quickly regained my sanity after catching a glimpse of the kitchen and family room. Detritus from four breakfasts lined the kitchen counter, Fisher-Price had rented the family room floor as a warehouse, and my son was making grunting noises. I thanked her profusely, and she was sensible enough to head off to the rest of her morning. I knew right then that I’d never become a gardener with panache – that slot had been taken. I’ve gone in the opposite direction.

Now my “new” garden clothes came out of an old cardboard box. A pair of particularly ratty jeans has become my favorite. At some point in their history, I cut them off at mid-calf. They get more ragged after each every washing, but they are s-o-o-o-o comfortable; so worn that they are thin, their faded denim no longer tough. The paint spattered across them recalled a red picnic table, blue deck furniture, white window sills, and a hot pink and orange bird feeder that is one color shy of psychedelic.

But these pants have filled another niche in this busy summer. They have allowed me unprecedented freedom in the kitchen in the past few weeks. I have been doing a lot of cooking, and instead of wearing an apron, I just wore these old splotched jeans. I no longer dry my constantly wet hands on an apron or dish towel, I wipe them on my pants. Thigh-drying helps me keep up my speed. I love it. I feel wickedly sinful, borderline illegal. And not one bit like an English lady gardener.

Now olive oil, beet stains, fertilizer, and ground-in garden dirt have joined the paint colors. These jeans get handier every day and I can’t believe how fond I am of their perma-stain imperfection. Even washing them twice a week doesn’t erase the calculations I recently wrote on one leg … in ink. They’ve become a log of jobs completed – a legacy of dirty work. I’m proud of them.

I never imagined myself admiring a filthy garment, but I’ve discovered that being comfy, grubby, and even a little dirty, is downright fun. Goodbye flowered skirts.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren, Pa with her husband, Richard, and Finian, their sleepy-eyed Maine Coon. Marcy can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com .