So there I was, in the parking lot of Staples, bending over to shove my purchases into the back of my faithful Nissan, when it happened.
The ripping sound. The jagged tear of denim. The sudden sense of my hind end being rather better ventilated than before.
The sensation was both horrifying and immediately familiar, despite the fact that I’ve only had it happen a few times in my life. The seat of my pants had just ripped.
“Son of a bitch,” I thought, groping frantically behind me, and discovering a truly spectacular tear. The jeans hadn’t just ripped, they’d practically committed suicide. “I just bought these two months ago, they’re not even tight, goddamn shoddy craftsmansh–“
A second, rather more desperate thought intruded, as my brain brought it to my attention that I was, in fact, wearing thong underwear.* For a minute, all I could think of was the Calvin and Hobbes where Calvin tears his pants and thinks “Of all the days to wear the underwear with the little rocket ships on them…” This was cathartic, but not particular helpful.
Well, life is full of these little crises. I straightened up. I turned. I carefully did not look to see if anyone had seen me, because damnit, there are things I don’t want to know. I set my back to the car and inched around it, opened the door and wedged myself backwards into the driver’s seat. I had other errands to run, but suddenly they didn’t seem all that important.
Into every life, a little rain must fall…
*Don’t knock it, it’s rather surprisingly comfortable.