Okay, so today was a very emotional day for me. Since returning from a 4-day trip to the Grand Canyon nearly 2 weeks ago, a little voice (one of the many in my head) had been quietly nagging me to check the whereabouts of my favorite pair of pants. Today, I finally listened to that voice (who by now was smugly humming A Tribe Called Quest's "I left my wallet in El Segundo").
Everyone has a favorite something or other in the closet -- shoes, jeans, t-shirt, Honduran boy, etc. Me? I had a favorite pair of camouflage pants. I say "had" because they're gone.
The last time I wore them was on the flight to Vegas, where I met my Dad. After getting the Shelby GT-H Mustang, we made like Elvis and promptly left the building for the Canyon. The last time I saw them was in the cabin we rented; they were in my luggage, awaiting their next tour of duty.
I've heard of traveling pants but... The last photo of my favorite camouflage pants was taken somewhere on the border of Nevada and Utah. At least they went out with a 350-horsepower bang.
The horrible realization that they'd disappeared first began to dawn last Thursday when I couldn't find the black belt I usually wear with them. Luckily, I tend to buy things I like in two's so I had a back-up belt waiting (grrrr, if only I'd done the same years ago when I bought those pants at Macy's!).
It wasn't until today that I fully realized my all-time favorite pants are no longer with me. I checked my luggage again, I texted my cousin in Vegas, I called the two hotels where we had stayed, I even called my Dad to see if he accidentally packed them (they are, after all, camouflage and could easily blend in with other clothing). Nothing. The pain in my heart was as though I'd lost a friendship.
Oh, you think I exaggerate. Seriously, I've had easier breakups than what I felt today. Not only did they make my ass look great (camouflage is a wonderful thing), their soft fabric was versatile -- light enough to wear in the God-awful humidity of South Florida and scorching heat of Nevada while heavy enough to wear on a cool fall night in NYC. Ugh! The more I think about them, the harder this is to accept.
After searching the Internet high and low for a replacement pair (I found a distant cousin of my pants on eBay and am now the highest bidder but it's no consolation), I lamented the loss while on the phone with Paula, my friend in Miami whose shoulder is harder to cry on than a desert cactus'.
"Damn, Jenn. You really are white trash. You lost your pants while on vacation with your Dad? What the hell?"
"When in Rome, bitch."
"No, seriously, how exactly did you lose your pants? You saw the Grand Canyon and said, 'if you think THAT's a gaping hole, check THIS out!'"
I expect other friends will offer the same sort of comforting, especially Jeremy who banned camouflage anything about six months ago. I can still hear him now, "Camouflage is never in season. Period."
I think the hardest part is imagining my pants in some pile of trash somewhere (no doubt, Jeremy would approve), carelessly tossed in with the hotel's garbage or perhaps already baking in an Arizona landfill. I guess the happiest fate I could wish my pants is that they're at home in some poor hotel worker's closet. I can only hope that whoever found them doesn't share Jeremy's opinion.
For those that don't know, now ya know.
No comments:
Post a Comment