Pants Anxiety
Most of my years Sub-18 were defined by a identifying flap of leather (or whatever) sewn to the backs of my denims--HUSKY.
To this day (15 years later) I still have the hardest time making myself buy new pants...the psychological damage created by my (then) physiological make-up has not improved even as I have shaped up and grown older. As my pants, dungarees, trousers, short-pants, pantalones, clamdiggers, lowriders, what have you, get more and more threadbare and scandalous it takes a Herculean effort (and written warnings from my employers, neighbors, and the local Thin Blue Liners on how I am dangerously teetering on the edge of public indecency) to drag my (almost fully exposed) ass down to a clothing store to slap the ching down for some new sub-torso garments.
Worrying whether I am still the same size as the last time I purchased pants...oh sweet Zeus WHY DID I EAT THAT WHOLE BAG OF DORITOS?!?
Ahem.
It's that bad.
To rectify this situation I am strongly considering foregoing pants altogether (in the all-together...snort) and switching to 24-7 swaddling as my clothing of choice.
Or maybe some Lion Skins a la Hercules*?
Since this new choice in attire will render me unable to retain my current line of work I'm pondering a new career as a lakeside prophet or free-lance adventurer.
All I need to do after this is acquire some kick-ass sandals and...er...wait...I don't want people to see my feet.
Dammit.
T
(problems, problems, problems)
*But any Trials my Father puts me through had better not involve getting any where near a stable. Horses (and their copious excrement) scare the...heh...shit out of me. Knowing my Father any Tasks he requests of me would involve getting up on a ladder and cleaning out his gutters OR trimming limbs off the pine tree in his front yard. Some Action THAT would be, eh? Not even suitable for Modern Day Mythology...
Most of my years Sub-18 were defined by a identifying flap of leather (or whatever) sewn to the backs of my denims--HUSKY.
To this day (15 years later) I still have the hardest time making myself buy new pants...the psychological damage created by my (then) physiological make-up has not improved even as I have shaped up and grown older. As my pants, dungarees, trousers, short-pants, pantalones, clamdiggers, lowriders, what have you, get more and more threadbare and scandalous it takes a Herculean effort (and written warnings from my employers, neighbors, and the local Thin Blue Liners on how I am dangerously teetering on the edge of public indecency) to drag my (almost fully exposed) ass down to a clothing store to slap the ching down for some new sub-torso garments.
Worrying whether I am still the same size as the last time I purchased pants...oh sweet Zeus WHY DID I EAT THAT WHOLE BAG OF DORITOS?!?
Ahem.
It's that bad.
To rectify this situation I am strongly considering foregoing pants altogether (in the all-together...snort) and switching to 24-7 swaddling as my clothing of choice.
Or maybe some Lion Skins a la Hercules*?
Since this new choice in attire will render me unable to retain my current line of work I'm pondering a new career as a lakeside prophet or free-lance adventurer.
All I need to do after this is acquire some kick-ass sandals and...er...wait...I don't want people to see my feet.
Dammit.
T
(problems, problems, problems)
*But any Trials my Father puts me through had better not involve getting any where near a stable. Horses (and their copious excrement) scare the...heh...shit out of me. Knowing my Father any Tasks he requests of me would involve getting up on a ladder and cleaning out his gutters OR trimming limbs off the pine tree in his front yard. Some Action THAT would be, eh? Not even suitable for Modern Day Mythology...
posted by Tony at 1:54 AM
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