I need pants. My wardrobe presently consists of one pair of blue jeans, one pair of khaki trousers and one pair of pin-striped slacks. None of these pants are fit to be worn in public, yet I do on a regular basis wear them in public, fit or not.
The jeans are about six inches too long so I have to cuff them over three times to avoid them dragging underfoot. After a long day of walking in the city, it's incredible what may turn up in the cuffs; leaves, twigs, gravel, gum wrappers, gum, bottle tops, pizza crust, Fig Newtons and other edible or non-edible marvels. You'd be amazed the many treasures that are beholden a city sidewalk.
The khaki trousers were an impulse purchase that ought not to have been made. They were hanging under a retail tombstone. That is to say, a 50% off clearance sign. The offer too good to pass up, I nabbed them from the rack without trying them on. I'm not sure if it's the design or that the sewing machine responsible had mechanical arthritis, but they bubble awkwardly at the hip so that it appears I am sporting a Huggies diaper.
The pin-striped slacks are made of wool and by far the most expensive article in my closet. I fell in love with them immediately and, despite the hefty price tag, whipped out my charge card for a rare treat to myself. As love so skillfully has a knack, I was blinded. The pants do not fit at all, nor did they back in 2003 when this stupid purchase was made. And, yes, I tried them on. But I was in love, so what was I supposed to do? I continue to move them from one apartment to another, across thousands of miles, because I still love them and I'm not about to ditch my $200 lover at the Salvation Army. It's not that I have to lose weight or gain weight to fit into them, but rather Ashton Kutcher would have to donate his torso to me in order for this relationship between me and my pants to continue.
I do not need T-shirts. I repeat, I do not need T-shirts. I have more T-shirts than I know what to do with. It seems whatever dresser drawer or closet door I open there is a T-shirt staring me in the face. If I had as many pants as I do T-shirts I could go at least three months, maybe four, without doing laundry and still be able to outfit the entire cast of High School Musical. Despite my abundance of T-shirts, they are the first thing I look at when I go shopping, which is surely the reason I have so many to begin with. I always intend to come home with a new pair of pants, but the allure of V-neck message tees is too much to resist and I end up cramming my bag with new ones that are super cute and say things like "Keepin' it Rural." Why do I do this? Like I said, I need pants. I do not need T-shirts. Particularly ones with pictures of tractors on them.
As a child I remember the opposite to be true. It was all pants and no shirts. Although it could be photographic evidence that makes me believe this, since what I'm actually recalling are the pictures from my childhood. I'm finding this to be the case more and more as I grow older. For years I thought I remembered attending my cousin Warren's wedding to Allison, and the elaborate conversations I had with my cousins, and the beautiful flowers on the dais, and the way Allison's dress had tiny beads that rubbed up against the palm of my hand as we danced. But when I think about it, there's actually nothing to think about. I know I was there and the rest of these "memories" are probably somewhat true, but in actuality I am making it all up; assembling a history of sorts that sounds true, but is in all honesty a fictional account of events. What I'm actually remembering is a photo from the wedding. There I am with my cousins, the beautiful flowers on the dais, and Allison in her dress with the tiny beads, looking more breathtaking than a photo usually permits. Whether or not we danced is debatable, but I like to think we did, therefore I put the event into this particular concocted memory.
My favorite childhood shirt was, apparently, a blouse. I barely grew until I was ten so I'm wearing this blouse in a catalog's worth of photos that chronicle a big chunk of my formative years. The blouse is made from velour in a shade of blue that is about as awful as it gets when it comes to shades of blue. The hideous color is given an exclamation point by virtue of it being long sleeved and high collared. It also cinches at the wrists with four inch elastic cuffs and again at the waist, resembling a cummerbund. Short of shoulder pads, it looks an awful lot like something Joan Collins would have wore on Dynasty.
It is truly an 80's nightmare, yet it appears more frequently in my family albums than either of my dogs or, oddly enough, my little brother. Perhaps he had sense enough to stay away from the lens because, as luck would not have it, he had the exact same shirt in a putrid shade of mauve; although it must be said, not as putrid as the shade of blue I got stuck with. I don't recall his matching version making any appearances in these photos, which means I actually must remember it. Seeing as I wore the shirt ad nauseum for years, it's pretty clear I remember his because I loved my own so very much. I'd like to believe the opposite is true, and I remember it for being so awful, yet I find it hard to believe I would agree to wearing something so frequently that I did not love. Therefore, I most likely remember the mauve duplicate because I was jealous and wanted mine in another color. The only other explanations I can come up with that I wore it so often are that we were poor and it was all I had or my mom only laundered one piece of my wardrobe; neither of which would be true. So I just have to buckle down and face facts. I have no discernible fashion sense now and, if the proof is in the pudding, never did.
This is why I need pants: I really don't care what I'm wearing. Aside from buying heaps of T-shirts over the years to make up for the fashion mistake I repeatedly made in my ridiculous velour get-up, I don't pay much attention to the clothes I put on. So long as my private parts are covered and I'm not uncomfortable in whatever weather lurks outside, I'm good to go. I also pay little attention to what others are wearing. Were I to witness a crime, I would be useless to authorities.
They might ask, "Was the culprit wearing pants or shorts?"
And my only honest reply could be, "Yes."
"What color was his shirt?"
"I don't know," I'd say. "But wouldn't it be ironic if it was the same one I'm wearing now?" That's when I'd peel off my jacket and reveal a Terry Fox tee that reads: "I'd rather be sprinting."
I suppose it's time I develop a fashion sense that includes more pants, fewer T-shirts and some sort of style that does not completely exhaust my mental faculties. I love bright colors, as evidenced by the rainbow of tees from one side of my closet to the other. I should probably find a suitable color palette that best reflects my skin tone and stick to it, but I like the thrill of opening my closet and seeing all the colors you'd find on a kindergarten cork board or in a gay pride parade. As for pants, I don't think the style matters so much as the quantity. I simply need more.
My plan is to go shopping this weekend and put some recently acquired gift cards to good use. I'd rather spend these gift cards on something more exciting than clothes, like a new iPod or the complete fourth season of Rhoda. Face it, nobody likes to fritter away Christmas money on necessities like shaving cream or Drano. Yet that is exactly what pants feel like to me - a necessity. I would rather not waste my time and money on acquiring pants, but just like whiskers and a clogged drain must be dealt with, so must my trouser dilemma.
Come hell or high water, I will try on as many pants as it takes. From boot cut to loose fit, from low rise to mid rise, from dark blue to acid wash, from khaki to black, I will find what I'm looking for. And I promise you one thing and one thing only: I will come home with a T-shirt. And it will be cute. And it will be colorful. And it will say something that, no matter the actual words, screams "Bradley." So in that respect, I guess I do have a fashion sense. Sure, it's strictly above the waist and maybe a little childish, but you don't need a picture to remember it. Just a pair of pants to go with it.
The jeans are about six inches too long so I have to cuff them over three times to avoid them dragging underfoot. After a long day of walking in the city, it's incredible what may turn up in the cuffs; leaves, twigs, gravel, gum wrappers, gum, bottle tops, pizza crust, Fig Newtons and other edible or non-edible marvels. You'd be amazed the many treasures that are beholden a city sidewalk.
The khaki trousers were an impulse purchase that ought not to have been made. They were hanging under a retail tombstone. That is to say, a 50% off clearance sign. The offer too good to pass up, I nabbed them from the rack without trying them on. I'm not sure if it's the design or that the sewing machine responsible had mechanical arthritis, but they bubble awkwardly at the hip so that it appears I am sporting a Huggies diaper.
The pin-striped slacks are made of wool and by far the most expensive article in my closet. I fell in love with them immediately and, despite the hefty price tag, whipped out my charge card for a rare treat to myself. As love so skillfully has a knack, I was blinded. The pants do not fit at all, nor did they back in 2003 when this stupid purchase was made. And, yes, I tried them on. But I was in love, so what was I supposed to do? I continue to move them from one apartment to another, across thousands of miles, because I still love them and I'm not about to ditch my $200 lover at the Salvation Army. It's not that I have to lose weight or gain weight to fit into them, but rather Ashton Kutcher would have to donate his torso to me in order for this relationship between me and my pants to continue.
I do not need T-shirts. I repeat, I do not need T-shirts. I have more T-shirts than I know what to do with. It seems whatever dresser drawer or closet door I open there is a T-shirt staring me in the face. If I had as many pants as I do T-shirts I could go at least three months, maybe four, without doing laundry and still be able to outfit the entire cast of High School Musical. Despite my abundance of T-shirts, they are the first thing I look at when I go shopping, which is surely the reason I have so many to begin with. I always intend to come home with a new pair of pants, but the allure of V-neck message tees is too much to resist and I end up cramming my bag with new ones that are super cute and say things like "Keepin' it Rural." Why do I do this? Like I said, I need pants. I do not need T-shirts. Particularly ones with pictures of tractors on them.
As a child I remember the opposite to be true. It was all pants and no shirts. Although it could be photographic evidence that makes me believe this, since what I'm actually recalling are the pictures from my childhood. I'm finding this to be the case more and more as I grow older. For years I thought I remembered attending my cousin Warren's wedding to Allison, and the elaborate conversations I had with my cousins, and the beautiful flowers on the dais, and the way Allison's dress had tiny beads that rubbed up against the palm of my hand as we danced. But when I think about it, there's actually nothing to think about. I know I was there and the rest of these "memories" are probably somewhat true, but in actuality I am making it all up; assembling a history of sorts that sounds true, but is in all honesty a fictional account of events. What I'm actually remembering is a photo from the wedding. There I am with my cousins, the beautiful flowers on the dais, and Allison in her dress with the tiny beads, looking more breathtaking than a photo usually permits. Whether or not we danced is debatable, but I like to think we did, therefore I put the event into this particular concocted memory.
My favorite childhood shirt was, apparently, a blouse. I barely grew until I was ten so I'm wearing this blouse in a catalog's worth of photos that chronicle a big chunk of my formative years. The blouse is made from velour in a shade of blue that is about as awful as it gets when it comes to shades of blue. The hideous color is given an exclamation point by virtue of it being long sleeved and high collared. It also cinches at the wrists with four inch elastic cuffs and again at the waist, resembling a cummerbund. Short of shoulder pads, it looks an awful lot like something Joan Collins would have wore on Dynasty.
It is truly an 80's nightmare, yet it appears more frequently in my family albums than either of my dogs or, oddly enough, my little brother. Perhaps he had sense enough to stay away from the lens because, as luck would not have it, he had the exact same shirt in a putrid shade of mauve; although it must be said, not as putrid as the shade of blue I got stuck with. I don't recall his matching version making any appearances in these photos, which means I actually must remember it. Seeing as I wore the shirt ad nauseum for years, it's pretty clear I remember his because I loved my own so very much. I'd like to believe the opposite is true, and I remember it for being so awful, yet I find it hard to believe I would agree to wearing something so frequently that I did not love. Therefore, I most likely remember the mauve duplicate because I was jealous and wanted mine in another color. The only other explanations I can come up with that I wore it so often are that we were poor and it was all I had or my mom only laundered one piece of my wardrobe; neither of which would be true. So I just have to buckle down and face facts. I have no discernible fashion sense now and, if the proof is in the pudding, never did.
This is why I need pants: I really don't care what I'm wearing. Aside from buying heaps of T-shirts over the years to make up for the fashion mistake I repeatedly made in my ridiculous velour get-up, I don't pay much attention to the clothes I put on. So long as my private parts are covered and I'm not uncomfortable in whatever weather lurks outside, I'm good to go. I also pay little attention to what others are wearing. Were I to witness a crime, I would be useless to authorities.
They might ask, "Was the culprit wearing pants or shorts?"
And my only honest reply could be, "Yes."
"What color was his shirt?"
"I don't know," I'd say. "But wouldn't it be ironic if it was the same one I'm wearing now?" That's when I'd peel off my jacket and reveal a Terry Fox tee that reads: "I'd rather be sprinting."
I suppose it's time I develop a fashion sense that includes more pants, fewer T-shirts and some sort of style that does not completely exhaust my mental faculties. I love bright colors, as evidenced by the rainbow of tees from one side of my closet to the other. I should probably find a suitable color palette that best reflects my skin tone and stick to it, but I like the thrill of opening my closet and seeing all the colors you'd find on a kindergarten cork board or in a gay pride parade. As for pants, I don't think the style matters so much as the quantity. I simply need more.
My plan is to go shopping this weekend and put some recently acquired gift cards to good use. I'd rather spend these gift cards on something more exciting than clothes, like a new iPod or the complete fourth season of Rhoda. Face it, nobody likes to fritter away Christmas money on necessities like shaving cream or Drano. Yet that is exactly what pants feel like to me - a necessity. I would rather not waste my time and money on acquiring pants, but just like whiskers and a clogged drain must be dealt with, so must my trouser dilemma.
Come hell or high water, I will try on as many pants as it takes. From boot cut to loose fit, from low rise to mid rise, from dark blue to acid wash, from khaki to black, I will find what I'm looking for. And I promise you one thing and one thing only: I will come home with a T-shirt. And it will be cute. And it will be colorful. And it will say something that, no matter the actual words, screams "Bradley." So in that respect, I guess I do have a fashion sense. Sure, it's strictly above the waist and maybe a little childish, but you don't need a picture to remember it. Just a pair of pants to go with it.
If I remember right that shirt you are talking about had a pair of sweats to match & the only reason you wore it so much was because you found that going to the bathroom at school was made a lot easier, now this has nothing to do with the shirt other than it matched THOSE SWEATS. Your brain was that of a 10 year old when you were 5, but your poor little fingers couldn't keep up to the brain with buttons, zippers etc.
ReplyDeleteI guess Momma is just going to have to come out & take you shopping just like always, as you just hate to spend money on yourself, plus it is fun when we do it & I sure don't mind. Just find me a store with a scooter & we will be set.
I love your stories from the past & by the way, you always got to wear what you wanted, no-one ever could tell you what to wear & I don't think things have changed much.
Love & Hugs Mom.....