Just like in the Wallace and Gromet episode, a series of interesting and unnerving events can occur if you somehow get on the wrong trousers. I know. It happened to me.
A couple blogs ago I trumpeted my shame at the need to buy bigger pants. Now I am forced to admit I was wrong. I was pulled into a web of deceit and misinformation. I was duped, bamboozled, even buffaloed. It turns out that I, even I, was a victim of the vicious elements that conspired against me. I rushed headlong into the fray, buying up new pants, disposing of the old, hoping to hide the evidence of my expanding girth. Then the truth hit hard, like business end of a 6-pound sledge. With that shock came the realization that I had been momentarily confused and the recognition that I am simply not as fat as I thought I was. And I blame my pants.
It all started on a dark and stormy night. Lightening flashed in the southern sky. I heard the creak of the floor, even though I was alone in the house and standing perfectly still. A shudder inched its way up my back and a sudden chill made the perspiration beaded on my brow into ice cold pools of pure fear. A gasp caught in my throat. I instinctively drew in my breath as though I might need it to cry out for help, even though I knew no one would hear. With all the strength I could muster, I buttoned the waist of my new pants then ever so slowly expelled the air in my lungs, but incredibly felt no relief. Instead I sensed an unusual pressure, an uncomfortable constriction, it remained somehow in my gut but also immediately haunted my mind. I yearned for freedom. I ached for mobility. I desired to walk, bend over or even just sit down. But I was frozen in place. They were new, hand picked and should have been supportive while giving me the agency to live my life with the security of denim and copper rivets to protect me from the elements. They had instead hurt me deeply and very personally. I had trusted them, but they mocked me, ridiculed my desire for comfort and left me feeling a shell of a man gripped in a vise of his own design. Reaching out for confirmation that I was still somehow the man I thought I was, I found nothing to grasp and instead fell into a pit of self pity and despair. And I blame my pants.
So here’s what happened. I wanted some new pants so I went to WalMart and found my size, paid for them and took them home. I washed and dried them and the next morning put them on. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I pulled and pried them on while all the time tucking in more than my shirt. The new trousers were as I’m sure you’ve guessed, too small. It seemed all too obvious, certainly I must have grown.
So later that day I bought the next size bigger. Five pairs of them to be exact. I took them home, washed and dried them and put one of them on. Sure it was more comfortable, even airy I might say, but I was not comfortable about the fact that my pants seemed at every opportunity to show portions of my anatomy that even though every teenager in the world seems comfortable with showing theirs, I was not willing to share mine with the world. So I cinched up my belt and went about my business. After almost a week I never could get used to the fit. Then it happened, a flash of insight. What if the villainous pants that had started this avalanche of activity were the wrong size? What if I wasn’t to blame? What if it was my pants?
So I got out the trousers that had started this mess and laid then next to a pair of the new larger pants on my bed and it was immediately obvious. The pants at the root of this problem were “way” smaller than the new ones. I looked at the label, it read as I thought it should, so I was again confused and bewildered. Then I got out the last pair of my old smaller pants and placed them next to the culprit pants. And again, the new suspect pants were smaller than the old pair. I couldn’t believe it. I had inadvertently discovered and now conclusively proven a conspiracy. A pant’s mislabeling conspiracy. And I have fallen prey to their affront. I wondered how many others had suffered tragically from this heinous act. So I did the only thing a victim of such a travesty could do. I gave away the five new larger pairs and bought some new ones the right size.
I have however learned from this experience. I shall now remain ever vigilant against another such event. I shall take, and live by, my son Bryce’s advise. When he heard the story he said simply, “You know Dad, this wouldn’t happen if you’d try them on in the store before you buy them.” There it is; from the mouth of babes. I have to wonder though “What’s this world coming to when your kids start teaching you lessons in life.” I’m a little embarrassed by this whole thing so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to anyone else.