The Sadistic Torturers Who Quietly Wait in Our Closet.

1 Mar

I hate pants.  Pants, slacks, trousers, even shorts.  Don’t like ’em.  Like ’em even less as the years go by and I seem to increase in size every few years. Still a medium everywhere else. Socks and shoes are the same as when I was twenty.  Hat size hasn’t increased even one silly millimeter.  Why do pants have to be such a hater?

I hate buying pants.  Because before you buy them you have to try them on.  You can never get a pair that makes you want to jump up and click your heels.  You can never find that pair no matter how many you try on.  The only way you can find the right pair is if you are an anorexic girl.

I don’t like to look in the mirror to see how they fit. (I’m fairly opposed to ever looking at myself in the mirror but to do so in pursuit of a mythical pair of pants seems quixotic beyond belief.)  Then, if you are out shopping with your wife, you have to exit the changing room and stomp around doing the  do these fit good enough to fork over hard cash  for dance in public.

I hate that pants ride up on you. I hate that if you are out running around doing errands your underwear gets all sweated up.  Then your beloved pants prevent air from getting in so for hours you’re just damp.

I hate that if you spill something on them that you get dirty looks from the person who gave you those pants as a gift.  I hate that if while washing your hands and you splash a little water on them it now looks like you peed your pants. It never looks like you peed in your shirt.

My greatest future fear is that in my next life I’m going to come back as a pair of woolen pants.

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