My preoccupation with buttons has given way to a much larger and fully realized tragedy. Today I battled one on one with a much more serious enemy. That would be my pants. But for the sake of common decency in this article I will refer to my pants as ‘vroomhickas.’
Today as I swung my leg over the seat of my motorcycle, my ‘vroomhickas’ ripped out at the ‘hutch.’ I rode on with no idea as to the extent of the damage. Once I got inside the store to work, I felt confident the textile transgression would go unnoticed.
As I punched in I noticed a fellow employee sitting a couple feet from the time clock. She took one look at me, said ‘hi,’ and announced, “It sure has been a long day.” Then to my surprise, she launched into a story about her day. Evidently her elastic strap thing that wraps around a woman’s chest, which I, for sake of common decency again, will call her ‘breezekah’, had snapped. She’d had to go to the mall to procure a replacement ‘breezekah.’
Why this Freddy’s employee didn’t procure her ‘breezekah’ from Freddy’s, I didn’t bother to inquire. What foremost occupied my mind was her choosing to mention her torn ‘breezekah’. Obviously she’d noticed something amiss about my ‘vroomhickas,’ or she wouldn’t have chosen that line of conversation.
Embarrassed, I covered the rip in my ‘hutch’ with my motorcycle helmet and walked on. As soon as I could get to a mirror my worst fears were realized. I rushed to the Mens Department to see if there were any ‘vroomhickas’ my size.
I was in such a hurry I picked up a pair of 36″ pants and went to try them on. If you’ve ever seen me you know I don’t wear 36″ pants. But it’s been awhile since I’ve shopped. My mind must have slipped back a few years to when I did wear 36″ pants. I wondered if I’d mistakenly taken them from the Boy’s section instead of the Mens; but isn’t 36″ the same no matter where you get them? I tried a larger pair on and then another. Soon I realized that in my rush I’d misjudged my own size by 10″. I picked up my shoes and walked to the register to pay for the pants.
When the pant purchase was complete, I looked to my left to see security standing just a few feet away. “Did your shoes fall off while you were riding your motorcycle?” he said.
Despite the fact that I publish many of my experiences on the internet, I am fairly modest. “No,” I said looking around to see who was watching, “it was my pants.”
“Yeah, it’s bad when that happens,” he said.
Right then a warm feeling came over me. Here was a fellow human being who instead of judging me absolved me of my indiscretions. He was the priest, holding out to me the wafer of common decency. Gratefully I took the offered bread. Once again I was the proud owner of a new pair of pants. My integrity, my humanity, had been returned to me by the humbling but necessary ritual of the purchase.
Here’s a link to the exciting Prequel if you haven’t read it yet