I Broke My Pants

June 13, 2018.Reading time 5 minutes.

We’ve all heard the expression, truth is better than fiction. When you blog, the two are often woven together with neither being the predominant thread. I’ve been known to stretch the blanket from time to time to suit comedic purpose. Sometimes what could have happened is funnier than what actually happened; so we just go with that.

I was going to forgo posting this week. When you’re seeking high art like I am, you can’t force it. That would be like a five-year-old going to the bathroom just before a trip. “I didn’t have to go then!”

Nothing felt right so I didn’t write… and then life happened.

My pants broke.

In and of itself, this isn’t very funny. But the comedy of life is all about timing. Of course one’s pants do not break while one is at home or when one is in the car a few miles away. No, cosmic forces conspire against zippers to break at the least opportune time and in front of the most people.

I happened to be at work last night preparing for an important board meeting. Being a coffee drinker over fifty years old, I thought it prudent to seek porcelain relief before the meeting to avoid interruption. It was there that I discovered why a zipper is called a fly in common vernacular because the minute I touched mine it flew into a million pieces. Yes, my pants exploded twenty-five minutes before a meeting of the board of directors.

I surveyed my options:

Safety pins. These proved ineffective in patching the devastation and impossible to fasten without help. It did not feel appropriate to seek help with my zipper.
Skip the meeting. Bad option.
Go FIFO – first in, first out. No one sees the gaping hole in my crotch.
Hold my pants closed like a batter between pitches. Seemed too edgy.
Replace the pants and arrive late but fashionable.

After sharing the dilemma with two very empathetic coworkers, I left them in puddles of laughter as I scootched out the door holding tightly the remnants of my pants.

CURSE YOU, Atlanta traffic!

Two miles to Steinmart during rush hour. After ten minutes, I scootched into the store. Of course it was crowded. Of course they all pointed and laughed as I arrived. I quickly found a pair my size and for the first time in my life didn’t even check the price. Of course I interrupted an employee meeting outside the dressing room.

As I explained my dilemma to the cashier, the young man made a valiant attempt to stifle his laughter as I pulled the tags off my butt for him to scan. I have to give him credit. He tried. I didn’t bother with the receipt and I dropped the tattered threads I had worn to work that morning in the trash.

I’m sure the eruption of laughter inside the store was equal to or greater than the sound of my pants exploding in the bathroom just twenty minutes prior. I don’t care… I was headed back to the meeting without a giant hole in my trousers.

CURSE YOU, Atlanta traffic!

I walked back in at 6:29! I made it. I saw the sardonic grins of people as they checked out my new pants. The word had obviously spread. But I don’t mind.

I declare victory over the Universe’s perverse sense of humor… this time. But I’m sure it will strike again. Maybe I should keep a spare pair of pants in my office.

A Beachtowel Looks Back at 30

June 5, 2018.Reading time 5 minutes.

I don’t know the life expectancy for a beach towel: five years, ten at best before they are threadbare, lost, or stained beyond redemption. I don’t know if there is a fashion among beach towels that would dictate one’s irrelevance after it becomes dated. I have no idea how long others hold onto their beach towels before they replace them – do rich folk get new ones each year while poor folk mend them to prod one more summer. I only know that I have had my Woobie for about thirty years and summer wouldn’t be the same without it.

I’m not sure exactly where I got the Woobie. I know it is was the late 80’s and presumably summer. I vaguely remember a couple of spring break trips with the Woobie by my side. I can name locations but not many details. As to why my memory falters, I will put forth the excuse of age and let you, dear reader, form your own suspicion. I have trouble imagining the state of its early life – forced to wipe up disgusting spills, cover general foolishness and debauchery, and endure infrequent washing. It was pressed into duty as bath towel, kitchen towel, and blanket at times. If I close my eyes and take a deep whiff, the Wobble still smells of bad decisions.

Like its owner, it is relatively amazing that the Woobie left college in one piece. If I could drill into its soul (assuming a towel possesses one), I wonder if it would recollect those as good years or if it would rather have been chosen by a proper family where it would have been used sparingly, laundered properly, and folded regularly. I like to think we were meant to be together – that the Woobie is my towel soulmate.

We moved south and lived through a few bachelor years. Maybe I washed it more, but judging by the state of my first apartment, likely not. Somehow the Woobie wasn’t tossed during the marriage gleaning process when most of the new husband’s possessions find their way to the curb.

As life moved on for me, the Woobie found a nicer closet in which to reside. It was laundered and folded after each use. More work and fewer vacations meant it spent most of its time in the dark. Yet it was there when called upon, even when things changed. Church picnics replaced beach and river parties. Chunky baby’s bottoms blocked out the sun. It covered a little one worn out from building castles in the sand and it held arm floaties, wakeboards, sunscreen, and goggles instead of red solo cups with nary a complaint. Always there for me… now us.

Whenever we get out the beach towels, nobody tries to take it. My kids recognize the Woobie as mine and hand it to me. Maybe it is out of respect, but I suspect it is because they think it ugly and not nearly as soft as newer, more expensive towels. And that’s okay. We all get saggy and rough around the edges with age. We’ve been through too much together to worry about things like that.

I believe anyone can mature… grow… change… and be redeemed – go from something worth less to something of infinite and eternal value.

Does that pertain to a beach towel with a name? I don’t know. But when I look back at my own life, I’m just happy the Woobie came along for the ride.

I hereby set forth my desire right now to be covered with the Woobie in my coffin when the time comes. No shirt. No shoes. Just one special beach towel. That way, when people walk past at my viewing, they’ll be left to wonder if I am wearing pants into the next life… peek at your own risk!