Bad Pants, Clutter, And Mind Control
I have had this certain pair of pants for nearly eight years, although their age is disputable. They could be as old as ten years, which places them possibly as far back as 1999, which is an entire decade ago. I have had these pants since I was a single person on the verge of moving back into my parents' basement and who smoked pot every night to make "Law & Order" seem incomprehensibly deep.
With that in mind, you would think that these pants have some history behind them, but they have very little. I bought them during a summer clothing shortage, which I suffer every year, because I hate shorts, I am very picky about skirts, and I will not wear anything without sleeves. I wouldn't want my sexy shoulders causing a ruckus. These pants kind of fit the bill at the time — they are capris and made of a lightweight fabric — but even then I wasn't too thrilled with them. They make me look shapeless and kind of lumpy, which, when coupled with my fair skin, makes me look like I just crawled out of a years-long basement game of Dungeons & Dragons. As a result, I wear them about once or twice a year out of a sense of obligation to wear something resembling summer attire, but I end up feeling like the dumpy aunt at baseball practice when I do.
I blame the pot for my purchase, because I have no way to explain my ownership of these pants otherwise. Of course, if I do that, then I have to blame pot for a good portion of my wardrobe. I suck at shopping. More than half of the clothing I own sags in the butt, hangs shapelessly around my mid-section, or well and truly bores people into comas. My closet should come with its own supply of epinephrine shots.
At any rate, I have been digging through the backlog of laundry that has been lost to the bottom of our hamper for eons, and I came across these dreaded pants. I nearly threw them into the laundry basket for their annual washing, but then it hit me. I HATE THESE PANTS, which thought was soon followed by another: I DON'T HAVE TO OWN THESE PANTS ANYMORE. I was on a roll with having the smart thinking, so I went for a third: I CAN THROW THEM OUT.
And then, I threw them out, just like that*. For ten years, I have been washing and folding and wearing these hideous pants that are made out of some kind of bizarre material that feels like velvet but acts like parachute cloth, and I only held onto them because it meant that I would not have to go shopping for another pair of summery pants when the weather hit the plus-90°F mark. If I had stopped at any moment over the last decade to weigh these two concerns, I would have realized that living with the ugliness of these pants was not worth avoiding one shopping trip, but that's how it goes with clutter.
Clutter is its own animal complete with mind control capabilities. That's how it preserves its existence. YOU WILL LOOK UGLY IN THESE PANTS FOR TEN YEARS**, it murmurs to your subconscious, and then you do it, because you are helpless within the clutter's thrall. Humans will go so far as to murder one another to stay alive, but clutter just connives to make you want to wear bad pants and keep those little porcelain figurines with the fucked up faces. I think humans might be my preferred animal in this case. At least humans can make better pants.
* Don't look down your nose at me for not recycling these pants. I did the world a favour. No one should ever have to be seen in these pants. It would have been unethical to release them back into society.
** You probably didn't know this, but clutter communicates in the seemingly innocuous voice of a chinese fortune cookie, because it knows that we're suckers for any intimation of fate. It says ALL YOUR BRAS ARE BELONG TO US, and, shazam!, you find yourself putting three tattered, ill-fitting bras into the back of your underwear drawer, when wearing band-aids over your nipples would be a more effective form of support.