Master of Scrapes

I used to like my brown corduroy pants. They had style and attitude. I only wore them when I wanted that extra edge. In one way, they were in some sense my comfort pants, making me feels warm and fuzzy in my knowledge that they were attractive, or more accurately, I was attractive in them. I especially liked this particular pair of pants because I acquired them without paying a cent. And no, I didn't steal them. They were in fact given to me by a kind and compassionate friend. However, after these pants have failed me in the most basic way, I not only do not like them as I used to, I will forever be wary of free clothing.

I put my brown corduroy pants on this evening because I felt I should dress up a bit more than the usual jeans outfit. I was feeling pretty good about my looks and apparel and left the house happy and unawares. The first part of the show went smoothly -- smoothly, meaning that nothing went drastically wrong, although most of the performers did seem a bit off. I should have taken warning and run away as quickly as I could. But, alas, I am forever learning things the 'hard way,' as I believe some refer to my way of learning.

Anyway, I made my bathroom break earlier than intermission, or half time as I repeatedly called it because I spend too much time around exercise science nerds, so as to miss the crowds that I knew would soon clog up the restrooms. When that time of performance break did come, I stood to move out, but then opted to stay in my seat instead of mingle with a crowd of which I only knew a few people. To my detriment. I made a swinging movement to sit down, caught the edge of the arm rest, felt some pretty intense resistance, and heard a terrible sound.

(There is really no point to you reading the rest of this story. No doubt you have guessed what happened, and there is no need for you to read of my humiliation).

Being an optimist, I greatly hoped that I had just popped open my snap pockets. I made a very discreet motion to check the situation out, in other word, grab my own butt to see what the trouble seemed to be. If you are an optimist, than you know what a let down I experienced upon my findings, and if you are a pessimist, then you already know what happened. I didn't pop the pocket open. I did in fact rip a good sized hole (good sized, meaning large enough to pull a car through) in the seat of my pants. Now, if I had been wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, there would not have been a very great problem. I would have simply tied my sweatshirt around my waist and went on my way. But I was wearing a button up shirt and, as I have said, my brown cords. And a winter coat. I find it humorous the way in which you get all cute to go somewhere and then put a big ugly winter coat over the whole outfit so as not to freeze, and so the outfit is almost invisible. There is another problem with this situation, beside the invisible outfit dilemma, and that is that winter coats do not tie around waists very well. They tend to, in addition to looking utterly ridiculous, sneak out of the knot you try to put them into and trickle their way off your waist and onto the floor where it does you absolutely no favors whatsoever.

As I sat, trying to evaluate the damage and determine whether I might just pretend it didn't happen successfully or not, I saw a girl who was in a dance with my sister. I called her over to ask about my sister's whereabouts. She told me that she was outside, and most obligingly asked if she should go get her. I said no, it was fine and after a moment of dead air, blurted out the state of my pants. She immediately started laughing, as I'm sure you are right now. I decided that I needed my sister's sweatshirt, and so girded up my loins, or rather tied the slippery coat around my waist and went in search of my sister. I must have been a rich sight. But I'll leave that to your imaginings. After taking an unnecessary trip outside, I found her inside and told her the state of events. Surprisingly, she was unsurprised. I suppose she has known me long enough to know that I am a Master of Scrapes. I successfully got her sweatshirt around my waist and over the gaping hole and could have gone on my merry way. However, being who I am, I like a few people to share in my troubles, or at least be able to laugh at them. So I told the friend who had accompanied me to the event. She responded with a hysterical, breathless, crying laugh. At least I can entertain. And of course, this lead to questions from other friends whom we were standing with. And then another dance girl came over to laugh at me, because dancer #1 had told her what I'd done. And after all that, it would be no great surprise to me to find out that everyone there heard one way or another that some girl had ripped her brown corduroy pants. If they didn't know from hearing, they knew from the green hearted sweatshirt I wore around my waist as an accessory to my brown corduroy pants.