Eight years later, the pants story

There are certain moments in a woman's life when she thinks she just may crawl into a pair of yoga pants and never come out.

Yesterday, my friends, I had one of those moments.

After bypassing any semblance of a healthy meal for fast food this weekend, I was well aware my body needed to go through a bit of fruit and veggie therapy. I knew I'd feel blah, I knew my mouth would have that weird greasy-food feeling. But the moment I wanted to grab my stretchy yoga pants was one I hadn't really expected.

Enter moi, carrying a pair of my favorite new, springy, light-weight pants. They're green, they're comfortable, and they dry in no time on a hanger in my bathroom. What more could I ask for in $10 pants? Nothing. Actually, I loved them so much, I went back to buy two more: one in khaki, one in pink. That's three. Then with my one pair of cords and my jeans on Sundays, I had my entire workweek mapped out in my closet. Talk about sleeping in for 10 more minutes each morning.

All those 10-minute snooze periods faded before my eyes, however, when I put on those magical green pants.

They stopped above my ankles. First problem: They're not supposed to. They're pants, not ankle-length cropped pants. They're not capris. They are pants. Regular, long pants.

OK, I tell myself, half hoping this means I've finally had that growth spurt everyone else had in the sixth grade. I've been waiting patiently for years. Why I thought it'd decide to come now, overnight, on some random Saturday, I don't know.

Second problem: I couldn't button them. At all. Sucked in, did the hop up and down dance, stretched them out, pulled at the waistband (no elastic, so it was really a futile attempt). Took them off, put them back on (like "maybe I did it wrong the first time"), shook them out, tugged at the bottom, threw them on the floor, picked them up, tried again, stood in front of the mirror and saw me, looking angry.

Oh, god, I thought. Greasy fries, quesadillas, Arby's, pizza, cheese and crackers: They all came flooding back (pretty literally, as I felt like throwing up). Is it possible? To gain that much weight in four days? So much that my pants no longer fit? No -- it can't be! (Insert "Psycho" shrieking noise here.)

Then ... I heard the dryer ding outside the bathroom door. The lightbulb over my head dinged at the same time: Dave. It had to be Dave. Dave, who avoided doing laundry if I so much as mentioned there were special directions ("This doesn't get washed with this, don't put these towels with these clothes," etc.). Dave, who is pretty much the most forgetful fiance I have.

Dave. Shrinker of favorite pants.

I grabbed other pants, was glad they fit right, and ran out to check the dryer. What do I find inside? My other two pants. Shrunk. All of them. Ruined. No more comfy pants. No more green, springy colors. No more lightweight cotton. No more ... no more.

So, rationally, I grabbed my cell phone:

"Dave? We're officially fighting."
"What? What'd I do?"
"My green pants. My pink pants. My tan pants. All. Shrunk."
Silence.
"Dave."
Silence.
"DAVE."
"Sorry, I forgot."
"WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR NOW?"
"Uh, I'm sorry?"

Men.

I hung up the phone, sat down in my pants that fit, and thought about going to get more pants. But that'd be $30 ... and what if they don't have my size? In my springy colors? What if? What if? War, famine and injustice in the world, and I spent 15 minutes actually plotting out a way to fit "buy pants again" into my schedule.

But, silly me. I didn't have to find time. Dave did. I'd like to report my new pants are now happily hanging in the closet.

And Dave? He's got a list by the dryer:
"Tan pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER
Pink pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER
Green pants, Old Navy, cold water, NO DRYER."

Oh, Dave.

(Photo: Right church, wrong pew ... right color, not really the pants, though not too far off: http://store.subcultural.com.)