Ode to my Pants

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to bid adieu to my gray pants.

They were, and now they are no longer.

But what can be said of my gray pants?  Because while the fit was good, they were never my favorite.

Why, they fell out of favor only two weeks after they were purchased.

I remember the day clearly.  It was early fall.  The moon was in retrograde, the Minnesota Twins were on a winning streak, and I had successfully used a neti pot for the first time with little lasting embarrassment.

That is all, of course, a lie.  I remember nothing of the day except this:  I am sitting at my desk when I look down, and there, on my brand new pants and from out of nowhere appeared, on my right knee, a nickel-sized white smudge.

Naturally, I tried to remedy the situation.  And by “remedy the situation”, I mean to say that I spit on my thumb and rubbed the offending blemish with it.

Surprisingly, my saliva, how ever heartily applied, did nothing.

When this tactic failed, it fell upon me to employ the next-in-line remedy in my stain-removal arsenal:  I wet a paper towel with a bit of hand soap.  Rubbing vigorously, what I suspected would happen did:  the paper towel fell apart.

The rest of the work day was dedicated to staring, off and on, at the spot. 

Whatever could it be?

Several enthusiastic and ultimately fruitless washings later, I was forced into an uncomfortable realization:  my new pants had been permanently stained and I would never know how.

And yet I still wore them.  They were, after all, brand new.

Poor girl, I supposed my co-workers to mutter amongst themselves.  I hear she only has four pair of pants.

And it was true.  “Four pair of pants,” my mother has always said, “is all you need.  Mix up the shirts.  No one will ever notice.”

Unless, of course, one of the four pair has a thumb-shaped blot on the knee.

That, they’ll notice.

And so I’ve done what any sensible gal will do:  I waited until the time was right – roughly two years, I believe it was – and picked up another pair of pants.  Four dollars at the second-hand store.  In keeping with the fashion of the times, you cannot sit down in them for fear of exposin' yer undies, but in their favor I will point out that they are stained-knee free. 

And so we bid farewell to the gray pants.

Good-bye, gray pants.

You should’ve meant more to me.