"Goodbye, pants," I say wistfully, putting them in the bin.
Saying goodbye to a faithful pair of pants is always a sad occasion, but part of growing up is accepting that sometimes you have to face up to the reality of binning them, instead of shoving them to the back of the drawer in denial. With most of the undercarriage in ruins and long-limp elastic increasing the hazard of wedgies, there’s nothing glamorous about the now-tatty pants. Some people choose to recycle them – giving them one last outing in a new incarnation as a duster or somesuch. Whilst I suppose it would be nice to be reunited occasionally with a trustworthy pair of pants – to reminisce over the good times as you polish your shoes – I don’t think I could thrust the ignobility onto a favourite pair. It would be a bit like when football legends prolong their careers for payday after payday after payday, until eventually they are waddling around the pitch like some doomed wounded animal. No, not for me and my pants.
With heavy heart, I go to buy some new pants.
5 weeks ago