Last Friday as I got into my car after running a bunch of errands, I heard that awful, jaw-clenching, heart breaking, nails on the chalkboard-esque noise of fabric ripping. Yes, brace yourself, my favorite pair of pants, maybe favorite pair of pants ever, had just ripped.
With my heart a little broken and in my refusal to accept that my favorite pants had indeed ripped, I wore them again. Don’t worry – I know now that it was a stupid idea, but in my defense the rip was in a very discreet spot and they were my favorite pants. We (the pants and I) made it through most of the day until (yep, you guessed it) they ripped again. Well there went all of my hopes and dreams of blissful denial, for the second rip brought me to the heartrending conclusion that my favorite pants=ripped. As in done-zo. As in I should not wear them again.
I explored some of the possibilities, namely, I entertained the thought of finding a favorite pair of pants and then starting a food storage-like collection of said pants, but ultimately decided that would just be plain ridiculous.
While I am still in a quandary and find myself favorite-pant-less (as in I don’t have a favorite pair of pants), I am currently holding auditions for the coveted role and am resolutely determined that the show must go on.
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