Today, I passed through another seasonal doorway.
White pants.
Oh, hush, I know that you’re not supposed to wear white pants before Memorial Day, but it’s close enough, and it’s very warm, sunny, and lovely today. Also, I wanted to wear my new honeydew colored t-shirt, and white pants go well with it.
I had a bit of a conundrum this morning, however, because I couldn’t find my white pants. I searched my summer clothing drawers. Not there. Then I searched the top shelf of my closet, where I stack my foldable pants, thinking that possibly it got pushed to the back on top of my big teddy bear, Monty (yes, he WAS named after a Monte Carlo, but not MY Monte, rather the one Esteban was driving when I first met him, similar to Denzel Washington’s ride in Training Day). Perhaps Monty was confiscating them until the proper calendar date. But no. Monty could only give me a blank stare.
Finally, I started searching through the “clean laundry” baskets for a different pair of pants to wear. But then I thought about my process. I have a very large bedroom (roughly 240 square feet). What is more, because no one ever SEES my bedroom, it is the very last room cleaned. The entire rest of the house must be clean before I even consider cleaning that room. I have a basket of socks I must match, another basket of socks that I call “The Singles Club”, into which the socks I cannot match go. There they remain in a sort of Sock Purgatory until I get enough motivation to dig through searching for pairs or until Esteban and I are tromping through the world barefoot. There are also two rotating hampers… one of clean laundry to be sorted/folded/procrastinated, and another more foul basket of dirty laundry. There is also an odd laundry basket, which contains things I don’t have a place for (for instance, Esteban’s shirts that I want to take to the cleaners… can’t put them in the closet because they’re not clean, but if I put them in the laundry, I’ll wash them and then have to press them myself, which is just asking for trouble). Scattered around these baskets, like fallen autumnal leaves, are various socks, dirty as well as clean. I think the bedroom needs a good raking.
The overall appearance is like a European street market of laundry. A basket of this, a basket of that. Esteban sometimes hovers over the baskets. “Which one of these are clean?” He’ll ask.
The one that doesn’t have stank fumes, hon.
Thus, my eye spied that odd laundry basket, home of Esteban’s business shirts and various clean laundry overflow. As if by divine inspiration, I rifled through it.
White pants.
I recoiled in horror. The last time I wore white pants, it was two days after Labor Day (yeah, I’m traditionally a fashion rule rebel). That means that my room has been assorted and random for eight months.
That’s getting fixed this weekend.
In punishment for ignoring the general state of my sanctuary, I inflicted myself with the most dreaded of all punishments.
Sport Thong.
Gah. I have this tremendous urge to pull the material out from between my cheeks. It’s like an anal hair shirt.
Oh I can just imagine the Googles I’m going to get from THAT.
Incidentally, in the news today, Abercrombie got some flack for marketing thong underwear for six-year-olds. Honestly, I can’t imagine that kids would choose to wear this crap. I mean, it’s butt floss and it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world. Are they worried about panty lines in their girl scout uniform? Do we really need slumber parties looking like stripper auditions at Beansnappers? Maybe instead of “light as a feather, stiff as a board”, they could do group pole dances. I mean, little girls shouldn’t worry about how their ass looks. Ever.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give for some nice plus size Little Mermaid Underoos. I think I can taste my thong in the back of my throat.
