Two entries in two days. Shut up.
I haven’t talked about pants in a while, so lets talk about pants. Rob believes that adding pants as a suffix to any word makes it funny / funnier and I tend to agree with him. Today’s topic, however, is more annoying than amusing. Through my frustration, maybe you will be amused, I don’t know. Shut up.
The length of my legs, combined with the way I wear pants, puts me exactly between a 30″ and a 32″ inseam. (For those of you playing Fantasy Pants at home, that would equal a 31″ inseam.) Now, anyone who has ever set foot in a store that carries two or more pairs of men’s pants also knows that odd-numbered inseams only exist in museums and those mythical places where hot dogs and hot dog buns come packaged in the same quantities. (I really hate that hot dog / hot dog bun joke. When I hear someone tell any form of it, I reflexively check the box next to their name marked “not funny.” It’s worse than all of Carlos Mencia’s jokes combined. Alas, I tried to think of a better one, but failed, so there you have it. Not funny.)
There was a time in my life when I preferred my pants obnoxiously long. And huge. The explanation given to parents and authority figures was that they were baggy “for skateboarding.” Sure, I was an avid skateboarder, and loose pants made much of the wicked-mad shreddery easier to execute, but let’s not kid ourselves … it was more like a contest who could dangle the most fabric from a belt around the waist. (FYI – Keenan was the clear winner with his 28″ waist and 50″ pants. No exaggeration. I love you, Mike.) Giant, cumbersome pantwear. Little, itty-bitty wheels on our skateboards. Ah, the early nineties. One of the side effects of this giant pantdom was that the cuffs were in a constant state of deterioration from being dragged around on the ground. It was during this period of my life I first became aware of the inseam measurement, and by “became aware” I mean “couldn’t care less about.” As my pants touched the ground, nature and physics would take care of the rest.
Fast forward to … I don’t know … some point during or after college when the cuffs of my pants had invariably become soiled by the elements and I probably had one of those pseudo-adulthood revelations. “Look at yourself, you fucking slob. From now on, you’re buying clothes that fit. Whatever that means.” In some fitting room at some reasonably-priced clothier somewhere, I decided that a 30″ inseam was Tony’s inseam and I wouldn’t need to change again until forced.
Maybe because thirty (the age) is on the horizon, and that is causing me to subconsciously hike my pants up toward adulthood, but at some point in the past couple months, 30″ has become too short. The initial revelation, believe it or not, occurred when I was in Vegas between sharfs. I was waiting for an elevator and I caught a glimpse of myself in a giant mirror. “HAhahaha! Nice flood pants, asshole,” I said. “Is everything today coming up Milhouse?” Every full length mirror or reflective window I’ve passed since then has served as a reminder.
This whole inseam issue came bubbling to the surface this morning when the outfit in which I was prepraring to march proudly out the door to work … was vetoed by the Geester. Now, I am fully accustomed to her approving or disapproving my clothing due to color mis-matches, but today was the first time it happened because of the fit of one particular item. “Those pants? You can’t wear those pants to work. They’re too short.” Ouch.
Upgrading to a 32″ inseam has produced far more reasonable results, but I am still left with the problem of the cuff dragging in the back slightly. My solution thus far has been to simply hike up the 32″ pants higher than I would normally wear them, and hope I don’t shear the cuffs off in too short a timeframe. The next time you see me, I will probably have my pants cinched up a little too high, but the cuffs will be scuffing the ground loudly behind me. And I’m probably balder too. Don’t make fun.