I tried, Internet. I tried really hard. Today I even put them on my body and wore them while I ran around getting ready. Of course, like always, I ran back into the bedroom four minutes after I was supposed to be out the door and changed into another pair of britches.
I’ve only got six more days. After that, my white jeans are doomed to spend another nine months crammed into a bin under my bed.
I think those pants haven’t seen sunlight since early 2006. I guess I could stick with the positives: they still fit, people still wear boot cut, and silver fish don’t seem interested in denim. On the other hand, I don’t really have room to store clothing I wear once a decade. After all, Rocco has filled the root cellar under the servants’ quarters with his ever expanding collection of cigars. Sigh.
I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it. I have some weird mental block. I’m always enamored when I see them on other people’s booties. They look so crisp, so fresh, so chic, so SUMMER.
I even like how this pair looks on me. They’re almost long enough (a frequent issues for the tall chicks in my family). The waist is only about two inches too big. Hell, you hardly notice the crotch is in the entirely wrong place. That’s what I call a successful pant purchase, Internet. I would wager even Rocco’s celebrity crush Stacy London would let me get away with them.
And yet….there they sit…high on the shelf…all alone…in the dark.
There’s always an excuse: it’s too hot, it might rain, I’m out of light colored underwear, they’ll get dirty on the subway, I might want to eat or drink something other than saltines (I’m quite spill prone). I have a phobia that involves a sudden calamity that results in my desperate need to sit on the floor at Port Authority, forever staining the bum region of those britches an unfortunate color of brown. Hell, who HASN’T had that nightmare?
Case in point, I came darn close to walking out of the house in my white pantalones, but something made me change my mind. Today is ridiculously gorgeous, so I decided to wander down to Pier A. It’s so clear today I can even make out the Little Red Lighthouse under the bridge. In this loveliness, I had to plop myself down on a slab of granite and scribble these words. How well do you think those white pants would have held up?
It’s not the first time I’ve had issues with clothes. I had the same fears and reservations about wearing skirts as a kid. What if I needed to climb a tree or show off my mad rebounding skills at a moment’s notice? I had a reputation to maintain, damnit!
Maybe I should just suck it up and resolve to wear them out tomorrow, regardless what the weather and grime may have in store for me. Then again, the white jeans aren’t quite so chic on the tranny that just arrived in the gazebo. Maybe it’s Salvation Army time, after all.