Literally.

I recently bought a pair of pricey secondhand jeans. Shameless fall risks, I have twice wiped out on their overlong, over-wide, split-seamed bottoms. That said, they are super cool and I look adorable in them.

But common sense cautions against the ratio one part attractive to five parts loaded gun, so yesterday I decided to resell the jeans to a local consigner.

The young woman behind the consignment desk looked at the brand, clearly impressed.

“I know,” I said, before telling her they’d almost killed me twice so for my own safety, I was parting with them. “I got them at The Real Real in Greenwich a few months ago. They cost $265.00, and I’ve hardly worn them, so I’m thinking $200?”

She went back to check with her boss and returned after a few minutes to tell me they could try to get $79.00.

I looked at the jeans. Perfect heft, generous cut, such a nuanced faded blue wash. My body still ached from that second slip and fall. It hurt my ribs to sigh, but sigh I did. “Forget it. I’ll keep them.”

“Makes sense,” she said, but of course it doesn’t. It makes no sense at all. These pants will be the death of me, which is how I came up with my title.