Dear My Pants:
I wish I could post a photo of you. You, pants that I am wearing today, you get more compliments than any other piece of clothing I own. You are cute red, black, and white pedal pushers, 100% nylon, with a groovy floral pattern, white piping, and — my favorite feature — a velcro-fly fastening. I thought it was going to be a lot more spring-like today and threw you on with black ballet flats and a white blouse. I’m lunching with DearDR, so I wanted to look nice. Based on the comments I’ve gotten from some of my female co-workers, I look cute, even.
Pants, I bought you eight years ago in Chicago at a little store called Urban Outfitters. I don’t know if Urban Outfitters (where I also purchased my first Paul Frank t-shirt) was as big then as it is now. It was pretty big in Chicago, I guess, but until that trip, I hadn’t heard of it. And let’s remember that eight years ago I was (technically) single and had no children. I was a little more in touch (okay a lot) with pop culture than I am today.
That Chicago trip was a memorable one for many, many reasons. Not least of which was the fact that DearDR and I had recently become lovers, after dating for about six months. And boy, did we mess up our host’s bed.
Chicago was our second long-distance trip as a couple. We drove to New York City in the early spring of 2000. That trip, we hadn’t been sleeping together yet. There was a lot of sexual tension, but in a good way. I hadn’t been to New York City, yet. We talked about moving to Hoboken, New Jersey. We dreamed.
We were in Chicago for the Sixteenth Annual Blues Festival, and it was awesome. It was my first Blues Festival, DearDR’s… oh, say, tenth. It was June; Chicago was hot; the music was burning. And, what the hell, we were in love, in lust, in Chicago.
Pants, you always make me think of Chicago. Of how good DearDR and I were – and are – as a couple. You recall to me those heady days: pre-marriage, pre-children, even though by then I strongly suspected that DearDR was my husband-to-be and future-father-of-my-children. You don’t make me regret anything, just fondly remember.
Plus, pants, you always make me feel attractive, because of the compliments I get. I honestly don’t think I have ever worn you and you have failed to illicit a favorable comment.
Thanks, Pants. For all the good times.
Love,
rpm
