a sad farewell

My wife was long used to being in the presence of a razor-sharp mind like mine. She would say something like “You can’t wear those pants in public”, and I would say “Why are they called ‘pants’ when it’s clearly only one object?” She would tell me to shut up.

Is each half a pant? That can’t be, because not only do we say “pants”, plural, but “a pair of pants”, like each half was a pants, and not a pant. A pair of pants should be two objects. A pair of border collies is two dogs.

Oh, anyway, both my wife and I had the habit of wearing clothes until they barely hung together (a lot more attractive on a woman, if you ask me), and I took it to the extreme of patching my old pair of jeans until that last big rip that made them unwearable. Yes, I would use a pair of scissors to cut the patches, and since I learned to sew years ago, would continually be patching up my jeans. Patches on patches. Sometimes a little duct tape helped, too. There really is nothing like old, soft denim, especially if the pants have been worn so much that they kind of hang rather than fit, and a belt is obligatory. I wear pants like this in the garden every day. (I was going in this direction, really.)

There was the time when the belt turned out to be insufficiently cinched up and an embarrassing scene resulted, after which I was forbidden to wear my gardening pants in the front yard. I now tighten my belt so much that I turn blue if I bend over to weed.

But now it’s time to say goodbye. Nothing lasts forever.

 

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2 Responses to a sad farewell

  1. That is sad indeed. I love that Cindy dressed that way, too. My gardening friend Sheila says her husband affectionally calls her “my ragamuffin.” I have been told (by someone rather awful) that I shouldn’t be gardening in public because I look like a homeless hobo.

    • paridevita says:

      Well, there was one time when I was wearing pants like that, with slippers, too, and pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs down the street, and suddenly realized what that might look like…..

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