I own a pair of stark white slacks, and until now they have served me quite well.
Since the day of their purchase, their brilliant, blinding whiteness has remained untarnished. They have come out with me to the seedy stank nasty clubs of Tallahassee, to several big ceremonies, to plays both big and small, and even to a friendly get together or two. In these white ninja pants, I’ve managed to dodge smear happy dirt bombs and pointed alcoholic beverage attacks. Italian restaurants haven’t even been able to so much as leave a funny odor in the fabric, let alone leave a mark.
They’re like my trusty white steed. Together, we journey forth into epic adventures of awesomeness, frivolity, and general merry making. These pants are the Shadowfax to my Gandalf. If you don’t get the reference, shame on you. Go watch some Lord of the Rings, and then get back to me.
We have navigated dank, festering clubs filled with drunken college debauchery. Many of these beasts attempted to spill their beer and fruity cocktail color explosions all over me, but never have they succeeded. Someone once poured their drink from a floor and a half above me over the railing of the stairs. As if they had a mind of their own, my pants guided my feet out of harm’s way. Not even a tiny drop upon the hem.
If I’m being honest with you, and I try to be totally honest with you all, I can be a really messy eater. And on most occasions when I’ve worn my trusty steed pants out to a meal, I would of course decide on the cheesiest, creamiest, and sometimes even the deepest red sauce pasta dishes. Daring and brave? Possibly. Foolish and downright stupid? Absolutely. Regret? None at all. Not once has my sloppy fork to mouth action even come close to staining my beautiful white pants.
But yesterday on the morning of May 20th, our streak of luck would come to a gruesome end.
On our way to my cousin’s graduation, and after much driving and walking about without incident, my family, pants, and I boarded a blue school bus. I noticed the little bastard as soon as I sat down. An itty bitty little gnat type fly had decided to hitch a ride on my steed. What nerve!
Violent shake of the leg and pant leg: ineffective.
Relative hurricane force gusts billowing forth from my whistle cave: ineffective.
Ever so gentle nudge with my fingernail: SQUISH, SPLAT, SMEAR, DEATH!
Every moment passed like eternity, but the damage had already been done. The little bastard was dead. He had paid for his transgression with his life, but not without one last laugh in my face.
And what the hell is that gray soot looking stuff on the inside of my thigh?!
With this one incident, I fear that the luck surrounding my pants is in jeopardy. As soon as I get them cleaned up, I fully intend to wear them out again. And this time, no NY gnats or mystery soot are going to mess up my day.
Bring it on, NYC. Challenge accepted.