As I climbed back into my beat-up sedan yesterday after visiting the bank, I heard a distinctive ripping sound. This is not a good sound. I hoped it was not my back. Years of being a Roads Scholar gives me a bit of unintended sciatica in that right accelerator foot.
It was not my back. It was my pants.
The entire crotch ripped out of my pants. Rather it simply gave way.
There my hot pink panties waved in the breeze, for everyone in the bank lobby to witness. TMI, I know.
When I got my new job in December after nearly a year of unemployment, buying clothes wasn't a high priority. Now daily wear on old pants has taken a toll on my pride and on my backside.
Home to change clothes and move on with my day.
First thing today I pumped gasoline and accidentally touched the pump across the knees of my beige pants. Yes, indeedy, one long, lovely multi-leg grease stain has now set in.
Tomorrow I'm going to skip the middleman.
I'm taking a Bowie knife and simply shredding my pants before I leave for work.
