Every year when it would get nice enough to start wearing capris I would bring out my favorite green pants. I would finger the fraying seams and worn fabric and wonder how many more years I could get out of my beloved green pants. Then I'd worry about what I was going to do when the knees wore through or a seam split.
This spring was no exception. I unfolded my trusty green pants noticing the stains and wear was getting quite noticeable. I didn't care. I love my green pants, so on they went.
Then two weekends ago, we decided to take Margaret to the movies. As I was hauling my fat ass into the back seat of my mom's new car a tragedy happened.
The fabric that once covered my ample left buttock gave way with a hideous scream. I knew immediately what happened. I jumped out of the car only to witness rolls of gelatinous blubber oozing out of the tear of my green pants.
The fabric split on the left hip area; not on a seam, but right between the seam and the back pocket.
Margaret laughed heartily at my ripped pants. I wanted to cry.
My mom offered a few suggestions on how to attempt a repair, but I knew it was a lost cause. My beloved green pants are dead.
I tried to throw them away, but that just seemed too sad. So now they are in a heap on my closet floor waiting for their trip to the land fill.
Oh green pants, I will miss you.
P.S. I went back through my iPhoto to find some pictures of me wearing my green pants. Out of the 5,730 photos I have this is the only one of me wearing my green pants.
Moral of the P.S. is that I don't have many pictures of myself. Huh.(* People who only see me at work would be aghast that I have loved a pair of green pants, as I only wear black to work. Really. Only black every day. What? It's easy and I'm lazy.)
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