My Pants

I know that I have commented on my antipathy towards clothes shopping, but I must go to the well once more. The story begins some months ago when I accidentally left behind my black slacks on a trip to visit my family. I struggled on for sometime in the absence of that very practical garment, but ultimately hit upon a situation in which I could not do without them. I was asked to play a stagehand in a comedy sketch, and was game to do so. I borrowed a pair of pants to do it, but decided I should just buy some when they asked us to perform the sketch a couple of more times two weeks later.

The thing to do was to patronize a thrift store, I imagined. I had no luck at the two nearest my home. An employee at one was apologetic that they had little in the way of such subtle and understated clothes, specializing as they do in more garish articles. The other just didn't have much of anything. Off I went to the next nearest, at which I would surely find something. It's times like this when I know Einstein's theory must be correct, for what could have been no more than an hour felt like ten.

I searched through the racks over and over again for a pair of black slacks that fit me, growing more agitated and frantic each time. I would come close, taking a pair into the dressing room, only to discover that I had badly misjudged the size of the pants relative to my frame. When I was at wits' end and all hope seemed lost, I found a nice enough pair. Though I failed to locate its waist and length measurements, it fit adequately and I was glad to escape the store.

Showing the pants off to my fellow cast members, I was chagrined to discover they were women's pants. There was some amusement in the ranks, but compassion as well. Now, I am nothing if not practical, and I see no sense in discarding essentially gender-neutral clothes because they have arbitrarily been designated as female. I'm confident that such will not be evident in ordinary use. Even if they are, pants that fit are worth some derision.