Swoosh swoosh swoosh. Corduroy trousers, the gentle zipping sussurating sound as I stroll through the neighborhood. When I reach the main street, my steps are faster, and the sound steps up: zizz zizz zizz, this girl means business!
As a child, I loved corduroy. I loved the contrast of textures, the velvety stripes and the stern, plain valleys between them. I loved their toughness. I loved the word: cord-u-roy. And I loved the sounds as I walked: swoosh, zizz, zoop.
Then adolescence arrived, with its attendant self-tortures. Suddenly, the sounds (swoosh, zizz, zoop!) only meant painful, scorching body awareness: legs! I have legs! They swoosh when I walk! Gaaaaah, how mortifying! Totally. For years, I eschewed corduroy, to avoid the swoosh that told the world “I have a body! I have legs! I have a body! It sings when I walk!”
Years later, mindful of all the bodily risks and near-misses between then and now, I happily announce: I have a body! It sings when I walk!
Corduroy trousers, I love you. And you love me back. I know you do, because you whisper it to me: swoosh swoosh swoosh.
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Oh, me too. The only thing I don’t love about corduroy trousers is how they start to wear thin in…certain places. All that fun friction as you walk comes at a price…
Funnily enough, I tried corduroy shirts once but never seemed to get on with them.