Rage, Rage Against The Dying Of The Light
Here is a question that you probably never thought to ask yourself:
Who do you know who has the most office supplies in their pants?
It's okay. I'll give you a second to answer that.
Alright, it is me, not surprisingly. I have the most office supplies in my pants.
I love these office pants that I am wearing. They are a great shade of smoky chocolate brown, they are a tiny bit stretchy, and I can put them in both the washer and the dryer. They have no pleats, they are straight-legged, and the rise is neither too high nor too low. I am rarely afflicted with VPL (Visible Panty Line) no matter what kind of underwear I wear under them. They are magickal, fabulous, nearly irreplaceable pants.
I am, by no means, a fashionista. I still wear t-shirts from 1997. My favourite shoes are a pair of construction worker orange sneakers that I bought for five dollars. And these pants? They would never mislead you into thinking that I knew anything about style. You would never notice them on the street. They fly so far under the radar of exciting that you would never be able to pick them out in a lineup if they committed a crime. Despite their visual mediocrity, they have proven themselves time and again to be the most lovable of my office pants wardrobe.
And by "time and again", I mean to say: they are old. They are just over four years old, to be exact. When I started this job three years ago, the left hem came down while I was at work. Every resourceful, I stapled it back into place. Ever lazy, I have left that staple there ever since. When an interior button fell off, I found a flimsier variety of paper clip and fastened it back into place. Neither of these fix-its have bothered me in all the time that I have owned these pants. As long as these stopgap measures have gone unnoticed, these pants have been good to go. Until today.
Today, just as I was going to get up to photocopy some documents, I noticed that the upper interior of the left leg had split right at the seam. I sat there, looking at my thigh flesh through the tear in my beloved pants and came to grips with the fact that my pants were going to find themselves in the garbage soon.
Just not right away.
You see, I have a roll of double-sided, clear tape at my desk, which I have never found a use for, but at that moment it called to me from its dusty drawer. I took it to the bathroom, removed my beautiful pants, carefully taped the seam allowance down over the tear in the fabric, and voila! The rip is completely unnoticeable as long as the tape holds.
The only problem with this solution that I have found so far is that my leg hair is ripped out by excess tape every time I stand up. So, guess what? That's right. I just put more office supplies into my pants. A small strip of packing tape placed over the double-sided tape site has taken care of the unwanted depilation nicely.
I know. I am so smart. I am the McGyver of the pants world. Thank you.
I think I have attachment issues.