Somewhere, hidden from view, is a secret society. This group’s soul mission is to raze the retail industry of fashion faux pas. They spite me. They mock. They laugh and point as they monitor my futile attempts to locate a pair of red sweatpants.
It’s not that I would normally find red sweatpants acceptable, in any sense. Sweatpants aren’t exactly the best option for a guy as it is. Sure, they were comfortable but as young boy, going through adolescence, they were a ticking time bomb. Who doesn’t remember those awkward moments in grade school? There you would be, sitting at your desk, trying to appear all studious and suddenly, it would happen. Your little friend would wake up. There was no reason for it. It would just happen. You had not one thought in your head that could be confused as arousing and yet there you were, half mast. The more you tried to hide it, the…um…bigger…cough… the problem would become. Next thing you know, “Young Mongo, could you come to the board and complete the math problem?” 2 + 2 is OMG WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU POINTING AT ME FOR WITH THAT?!?!? GO TO THE OFFICE!!!! Then there’s letters and meetings and counseling and awkward apologies in front of the class.
Anyone? Really? No one? Um, well, I was just over dramatizing a situation.
OK, the last part.
And we’re walking….
As I try to repress those memories, along with the Afghan Incident, I am reminded that I need to get my Halloween costume ready for a party tonight. Up until yesterday, I could not find a pair of red sweatpants in the Southwestern PA area. I tried Walmart. I tried Kohls. I tried Target. I tried The Goodwill. I tried Bob’s Big House of Red Sweatpants. They were out, too. No lie.
Now, I found plenty of red sweatshirts. Oh, there were stacks upon stacks of red sweatshirts in various stores but when it came to pants there was Black, Navy, Gray, and other Gray. No greens. No yellows. No ‘effing REDs!
“Why red?” You may ask.
We decided, and by “We” I mean I decided to change the costume choice for my wife and I at the last minute. Originally, we were going to go as Snooki and The Situation. She was going to go as….. The Situation. But, I really did not want to shave and do all that down there stuff and get into tights. I hate shaving my face, why the hell would I shave my legs. Besides, no one wants to see me in a dress. There’s got to be some cosmic Megan’s law that should prevent that.
So, at the last minute we decided to go as Thing 1 and Thing 2 while our daughter would be The Cat in the Hat. It was so simple. All I had to do was make up some shirts through my store and then find a wig and red sweatpants. No one told me there was an embargo on red sweatpants from Sweatpantsistanastonia. I would have planned ahead. My wife. She has a pair of sweatpants. Her mom had five or six pairs of red pants. Hell, her dad even had a pair but under martial law from that secret society, he was forced to through them out. It was crunch time. I mean, how cute would it be for my daughter to go trick or treating as The Cat in the Hat while we dressed up as Thing 1 and Thing 2? It would be priceless to see her in that little cat suit.
She’s going as a ladybug, mind you.
Last minute, Yo.
I couldn’t find a damn Cat in the Hat costume, anywhere, that didn’t require shipping charges in the amount of a “Butt Load” to get here in time for Halloween. And remember, “Butt Load” is an acceptable unit of monetary measure, somewhere between “An Obscene Amount” and “Gruesomely Huge.” Shout out to Ginny over at That’s Church for Gruesomely Huge. We opted for a ladybug costume, which is cute and in all honesty that kid could make a burlap sack look adorable. Hey, that’s half my genes in there…. Which means, I’m half cute, right? [crickets]
So, after all is said and done, I opted to squeeze my big ole butt, OH YEAH, into my wife’s red sweatpants while she wears a pair of her mom’s pedal pushers. At first, I thought it was “peddle pusher,” which made me think it was something created by the The Redundant Department of Redundancy. Hey, I’m a guy. There’s no capri, skort, culotte, or pedal pushers. We know jeans, slacks, and sweatpants. This could all go horribly wrong. I’m going to have to loosen the drawstring all the way to the end, and hope I don’t lose the end in the abyss that lies just beyond the eyelet of the pants. You know, that never ending tunnel that wraps around the sweatpants and holds the drawstring. When you lose and end you have to spend the better part of a day shimmying the drawstring along, millimeters at a time in the hopes that the Flugelbinder, yes that it is the technical term, will emerge from the other hole like snake. OK, it’s really aglet, but Pop Culture taught me Flugelbinder.
Crisis averted. Order restored. Call off the hounds. I’m good to go on that sweatpants deal… for now. Although, I have to wonder if my wife, forcing my father-in-law to throw away those old pair of red sweatpants was simply a karma boomerang that nailed me in the face, because she ducked. I wouldn’t have wasted three days searching for red sweatpants if he still had them. That’s why I’m probably about three cats and two mailers, from Fisher’s Big Wheel, away from being a hoarder. By not throwing anything away, I’ve found myself using it later. My life is filled with Chekhov’s Guns, just waiting to go off at a seemingly fortuitous moment.. “Oh, look here at this seemingly random object that I should just throw away. It couldn’t possibly be relevant at all to anything involving me or an event later that might require it.”
This is why I still have a padded Domino’s pizza bag that I stole in college. OK, I didn’t steal it. The pizza guy left it behind and I just kind of claimed it. You never know when it might be useful, like when you have a craving for Papa John’s pizza and the nearest one is twenty minutes away. Just saying.
Ok, I’m out. Have a good weekend all and I promise to really consider posting pictures of my gruesomely huge ass dressed up as Thing 1. For realsies. By the way, I am not only taking extra clothes with me to this party, I am wearing a pair of shorts under the sweatpants. If I’ve learned one thing in my life is that you always prepare for embarrassing moments by diffusing them ahead of time. It took me nearly failing sixth grade math to figure that out.
No, I’m not.
Yes, I am.
OK, it was fifth grade math and I almost got a C.