Seven Pieces of Pantalones
Or, My Pants Have Personality
MOST of the pants in
my dresser are… acquaintances. We know each other well enough that I’m willing
to spend a certain amount of time with them, but that doesn't mean we know or care about each other very well.
These are the generic blue jeans, the single pair of pants that near every
human on earth seems to own but couldn't care less about, and the feeling is
mutual. Like an acquaintance, my blue jeans are used when I need them, but we
have no further relation beyond that. When wearing them they do their job, but
occasionally I have to check up on them, make sure my butt is still covered.
Perhaps someday something real or something serious could develop here, but
that would only occur if anyone cared enough to make any changes in our
situation. Until then, they are my blue jeans, and I am their human legs. We
use each other, we get what we need, we get out, and then we generally ignore
the fact that the other exists. Perhaps what’s most sad about this situation is
the pure number of blue jean acquaintances which I have; it’s almost pathetic,
really, our mutual failure to make any connection whatsoever in all the time
we've sort of known each other. In most cases, still I don’t even know their
name!
THE next personality
type comes from my Irish jeans. I call them my “Lucky” pants for two reasons:
the inside of the zipper proudly displays a four-leaf clover and the text “LUCKY YOU” when
opened (no suggestion there, wink wink), and the button that formally closes
the pants randomly pops off with no warning, meaning sometimes when I really
need my butt covered, I feel draft coming in, if you catch my meaning. These
pants, in part because of their bagginess, but also because they are very worn
hand-me-downs that’s thread is showing more white than blue, are some of the
most gorgeously comfortable pants I own, and I love spending time with them.
However, these “Lucky” jeans are infamously unreliable, and as a result my time
with them is almost exclusively spent in private. Whenever I do, for some
unfortunate reason, deign to take them out into the world, it’s always
necessary to make sure a very close watch is kept on them. Even so, I can
always trust these pants to do their job, as situationally useful as it is,
meaning if I ever find myself in just
the right circumstance that I know
I’ll need a pair of pants that can be shed at a moment’s notice, these pants
are always on-call. However, as nice as it is in theory that they are always “on the job,” so to speak, the fact
that I have yet to ever use them is probably a greater testament to how
situational they really are!
EVERYONE alive has
that one “friend” that tries too hard, and that you just can’t bring yourself
to love no matter how hard you try. Enter the “Clinger.” These thin-fabricked
light blue jeans are a little bit of the opposite of my acquaintance jeans;
where acquaintance jeans slowly fall down or slip away, these guys climb all
the way up and silently scream LOVE ME AS MUCH AS I WORSHIP YOU. The benefit to this is I know
they’ll never leave me uncovered, so as much as I try to avoid them, I still
have to call on them for aide occasionally (much to their unhealthy delight).
The unfortunate fact of the “Clinger” is all of their enthusiasm and
overabundance of energy does nothing to make then endearing, as hard as I try
to like them. Instead, I find myself sharing a room with a creature that I find
small and pitiable, one that I feel guilty for calling on, because I know
they’ll do whatever I ask when I ask for it. It’s like I’m taking advantage of
them, and it kind of hurts to know that I’m that kind of person, even once. Or
twice. Or anytime I need something done that they have the unique skill for. To
all the “Clingers” of the world, I apologize on behalf of everyone. We really
want to like you. You just make it really, really hard, and it’s probably
completely unintentionally on your part.
DECEASED pants are the hardest pants to speak of, as I don’t
believe in sugarcoating the dead but representing them how they are, where
others prefer blind respect for filling the prerequisite “has died,” something
that happens to everyone at some point in time. My slacks and I were tight; not
only did they cover me, but damn, they made my butt look good. These pants are
the friend that I love because they never
fail to look good, and by extension they
never fail to make me look good, regardless of whatever I happen to be
doing at the moment. The unfortunate problem these pants had was that they were
tight. I’m saying Jimmy Fallon would
have been extremely uncomfortable to perform the “Tight Pants Song” in these
things, and it was a real issue! The honeymoon was fantastic, and as they are
just tan slacks I felt they were casual enough to wear a little bit more often,
but the marriage afterwards was a disaster. I felt myself slipping away,
farther and farther from their tight-fisted grasp. The more removed I was, the
tighter they felt when I did wear
them, causing me to become even more removed. And it got worse and worse until
one day, they did, split down the back from waistband to the back of my knee. I
probably should shed a tear, but honestly I’m just relieved they’re finally
gone!
SUIT PANTS are very similar to my deceased friend, the slacks.
They’re a bit tight. They look really good. But my suit pants know when to be
demanding, and when not. Perhaps the issue with slacks was that they could be
used in too many situations, leading to resentment over how controlling they
could be. Perhaps the benefit of suit pants is that whenever I do wear them, I
usually know everyone else is being controlled just as strongly by their iron-fisted
suits and dresses as well, but we’re all having fun anyways, so who cares?
Whatever the explanation, suit pants do tight right, and slacks need to tone it down a bit. It’s ok to ask for a
little bit on a formal occasion, but asking for everything at a high school PTA
meeting? Get over yourself, slacks, because Mr. Fancy Suit Pants knows when the
right time to demand is, and when the right time to softly coerce is.
WITHOUT a doubt, my second most favorite pairs of pants are my
cargos and my khakis. If these guys were human beings, they’d be the type of
individual that you might accidentally run into while grabbing groceries or
cashing a check, causing you to strike up a conversation and find out that you
two just seem to be among the fastest and most natural of friends. Everything
is just perfect from the beginning, and any negatives in your relationship are
so overshadowed by the positives that you forget they even exist. That’s what
these pants are. Covering, they never fall down on the job, not too warm, not
too cold, and there’s always enough room to breathe. I imagine the only time
I’d ever be disappointed with my cargos/khakis would be some fictional world
where everything, absolutely everything, was so incredibly terrible and
oppressive that if Zeus himself condescended out of the heavens and gave me a
handful of ambrosia and a swig of nectar, I’d find the food of the gods
lacking, and send him on his way. In such a case, my issue wouldn’t really be
with my pants, but with the state of things in general, so some malignance
transfers over unjustly. I deeply apologize, perfect pants, perfect people, if
this ever happens to you, and makes you feel less than what you truly are. You
never deserved it.
FIRST favorite, however belongs to a very special pair of soft
blue pants (I really need to get to know more colors) that I sleep with: my
scrubs. This pair of pants is perfect in nearly every sense of the word, and as
such I enjoy a lot of long, comfortable, lazy Sundays with a book in hand and
scrubs on my loins. We’re even so comfortable together that despite our
intimacy, occasionally we take to the streets, proclaiming out extreme comfort
to the world! Alas, such a relationship is a rare and special thing with a pair
of pants, and it will be a sorry day when I outgrow them. But don’t think of
that. What we have is now, and that’s
all that matters; let the future come as it will, and hold strong.
..............................................................................
A Short Metaphor
"Darling, English is an art form, and you happen to practice graffiti."
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