The struggle is feels

Most people know that I don't like to wear pants.  I guess some would call them "long pants," as I do wear "short pants."  No Winnie the Poo'ing it for me...

although the sun does feel good on my privates.

I do own some pants.  I have a pair of jeans that The Boy handed down/up to me.  Way too big for me in all directions, but they were free and also Levis.  I grew up in the '80s, so it was Levis if you could afford them, Lees if you couldn't and Rustlers if you were me.

I also have the Duckhead khakis I picked up at the thrift store so I could attend one day of corporate-type training before starting my new job as a bike messenger (for the third time in my life).  After that one day of wear, I used them as trail work pants on days when I felt like the threat of poison ivy was real.  Since then, the button has left the building, the zipper is getting stuck constantly, and the flared legs are just plain annoying.  I think they were meant to be worn over moon boots.

They are better than the jeans I had been doing trail work in that I purchased new in 1993, which sorta looked like this:

I gave those to Goodwill.  I'm thinking they burned them to keep the world safe from bad taste.

Lately, I'd been feeling the need to own better pants.  I can't put a finger on it.  Aside from trail work (and the wearing of pajama pants, which I feel is an acceptable winter option over, say something like a Slanket), I can remember wearing my pants in public three or maybe four times when it wasn't even required over the past two decades.

I think I wore them to one of Nia's school performances and when The Boy graduated high school.

I know I wore them to one of my mom's chemo session. 

I also know I wore them at least once when I saw my father at the VA hospital in Pennsylvania the week before he passed away.  Ahhh... the memories.  Pants = cancer

To be honest, there had to have been another time or two, though much less memorable.

So I bought some tan/brown denim pants while necessity shopping at Target a few weeks ago.  I left them lying on the kitchen counter when I got home.  Nia saw them and said, "Who bought pants?"

"I did."

"Hipster."

I took them back a week later.  I didn't like them anyways.

So fast forward to this past weekend.  Out and about running errands on my own.  Stop by a store that is about two notches above a thrift store.  Looking for cheap work shorts.  Always looking for cheap work shorts.  Such is my life.

Find a pair.  $6.99.   More than I like to pay, but this ain't Value Village.  I see pants on a clearance rack.  Approach with caution.

Something that looks like it will fit.  30X30, slim and Levis.  I may wear a 28 in the summer, but these are winter pants.  Since I'm going to have to go to the cashier with a pair of shorts anyways, I go try the pants on.

I feel like they look stupid.  Not like I can possibly care what they look like to others, but more like "Why would anyone choose to wear these things?  It's not like there's poison ivy everywhere."

I put on my flip flops to see what they would look like with footwear.  Aside from my Sanüks and a pair of Merrell trail running shoes, I don't have much in the closed-toe footwear department that doesn't have a Shimano SMH 51cleat bolted to the sole.  Posture, pose, crouch, wiggle... pants.

Since I'm gonna have to stand in line to pay for the shorts anyways, I decide to purchase pants.  Again.

I get home and try them on in front of The Pie.  She admits that they look strange.  Not that pants are strange, just me in them.  I stand in front of the full-length mirror, turning circles, chanting "pants, pants, pants."  It doesn't make the act of wearing pants any more normal.

I think I will keep them.  I don't like them, but I don't like them less than I don't like my other options... which is entirely.  They still have the tags on them, but I think perhaps I will throw caution to the wind and perform some sort of ceremonial de-tagging this coming weekend and throw them immediately into the baptismal waters of the washing machine.

If I can afford to have a fire extinguisher on the wall that I never use, I can afford to have a pair of pants in my closet.

Sorry about that.  Just wanted to post about something other than the current status of my ribs.

Which is still sads.

Not "missing Bryan Rigdon's birthday party" level sads though.