The Rip

Did you hear it?

Not the sound of traffic rolling or the chirping of nature out the window. No, that was a distinct sound. It was a rip. I’m sure it was a rip.

I don’t dare look down. I can’t be positive it was me that ripped. It could have been someone nearby – or if it was me, maybe it was a piece of my shirt. That kind of thing happens all the time.

Shirt tails spontaneously rip when exposed to direct light. It happens to guys over forty mostly because they don’t ever tuck their shirts in. I think they feel better if the curve of their belly isn’t accentuated. That way, people don’t know they’re wearing a 2XL. Sorry if that is rude. I’ve been there. I know what it is like to wear a 2XL. I don’t want to be mean, but HEY! You’re interjecting yourself into my stream of consciousness and trying to subvert the point. The issue at stake isn’t even whether I tuck my shirts in or not! The issue is whether the sound I heard was MY pants ripping.

 

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I swear they aren’t too small. I’ve never been one of those guys to wear tight jeans. I certainly couldn’t pull off the whole skinny jean thing. Reason number 328 that makes me glad I’m not a girl (#1 being that we guys can pee anywhere). I hate tight pants. Okay, so I’m not dead, I don’t mind them on some people, but there should be a government application you have to fill out before you can wear your pants too tight. Mine would get rejected instantly!

 

Besides, I hate wearing anything tight or constricting. I remember when I first joined the working world and business casual had not yet become acceptable. I had Walter Mittyesque daydreams about wrestling a bear and being drug around by my necktie. Well, they weren’t actually daydreams, I fell asleep at my desk often because I wasn’t quite used to being out of college. So I guess they were just dreams.

HEY! There you go again. Stop it!

Will you look down? I don’t want to. I’m afraid.

NO!

 

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If you look down, and my pants are ripped, then our relationship could enter a very awkward stage. Our friendship would never be the same. Kinda like when the strainer from the faucet flew off and sprayed water all over my pants. I lost a bunch of friends that day because everyone at work thought I’d peed myself. And when I said I loved that guys can pee anywhere, I wasn’t talking about the break room at work. I was more thinking in the woods. The great outdoors – manly stuff like peeing on trees or a fire.

Who says we have a relationship anyway?

I mean, you won’t even tell me if I have a large gaping hole in my pants… which would be bad. Real bad. Why does it always happen in public? Why not when you get them out of the dryer and you put them on in the privacy of your own home? A rip there would be much more pallatable. More forgiving. I could laugh it off and change clothes without anyone else knowing. But it never happens that way. Pants have a way of telling a story unlike any other article of clothing.

Uh Oh! I feel a breeze – and not a natural breeze unless you live in a special colony or ride a boat and stick your leg up on the side.

Oh well. Here’s to a rip-roaring New Year. Now that we’ve got this embarrassing sequence finished on day 3, maybe we’re covered on humility for the balance of 2015

Floating In Pants

I don’t have a grand list of phobias. But of the things I fear, I’m pretty sure sharks top the list. As a child of the seventies, Jaws really did me in. I love going to the beach and being in the ocean, but constantly find myself scanning the horizon for a fin. I have been deep-sea fishing and enjoyed it even when I heard the eerie music in my mind and braced for the impact from the imaginary megalodon shark about to ram us from underneath.

I’ve been reading the book, In Harm’s Way, which is about the sinking of the USS Indianapolis during World War II. A few years ago a survivor of the event, Edgar Harrell, spoke at my children’s school on Veteran’s Day. His story was amazing. If you don’t know what happened, the ship was sunk by a torpedo and since they were on a covert mission, no one knew to rescue them. This led to the largest recorded shark massacre in history. While I am fascinated by the situation, it leads to all kinds of issues. Could I survive such an event? Take the sharks out of the picture, am I ready to float in the ocean for days?

Then I remembered! I have been trained to use my pants as a flotation device thanks to the Uncle Sam. That was over twenty-five years ago, though… can I still do it?

I decided to test my skill. After all, I fly over the ocean sometimes, I might need to use this someday. It pays to be prepared. The weather is perfect – why not? To my closet to fetch a pair of dungarees. In order to do this right, I have to be wearing them. If I survive the wreck, I won’t have my carry-on. Into the pool I go fully clothed.

First observation, it is hard to tread water with shoes on. You would think they would be an aid as paddles (especially my size 13’s), yet they tend to be more of an anchor.

Second, it is difficult to stay afloat and remove your shoes. Always wear slip-on shoes or flip-flops if there is a high probability of emergency flotation.

Third, taking off your pants in the water can lead to some rollovers – it is tricky to both hold your nose and disrobe.

Forth, tying off your pant legs is fairly easy. Inflating them while staying topside is not. I am not asthmatic, but I must have the lung capacity of a baby armadillo.

Fifth, you should always wear a Jethro Clampett belt. I am ditching leather for rope immediately. That will be the only way to secure the waist tight enough to hold air.

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I am happy to tell you that should I ever find myself in the ocean with pants, I will likely live to tell about it unless I see a circling fin. The trial was a complete success. Quite proud of myself, I exited the pool and would like to share just a few more observations. Unlike me, you should probably choose a friend, relative or close neighbor’s pool, not a nearby community pool. The reason for this is you will find wet pants that have been used as a flotation device are nearly impossible to untie and put back on, which makes for a disquieting two-mile walk home.

Oh, and you should probably notify the police or get a permit as if you are having a fireworks display or parade. They take a dim view to a wet, pantless man walking home late at night.