“Where the f*k are my G-dDamed painter pants”.
Mrs S replied.. “Some people start the day with ‘Good Morning’” you should try it.”
Scowl.. a feeble attempt at the “Look” that I can’t pull off.
I should report I’m crabby as hell at the moment.
December 25, the entire family decided to celebrate Christmas in the Jewish tradition and rather than sing songs about the nativity of Jesus, instead went to see a movie. Sherlock Holmes I believe. I do not know if Chinese food was involved. Never the less I stayed home. I don’t care for movies and I especially don’t care for movies that are going to be packed and thus my back row seat is not guaranteed. Room With A View for example, I liked that movie not because of the story and certainly not the nudity since the only nudity in that lame art film was a fat old Vicar “bathing” with a bunch if young men..
Not sure that would play today.
I liked that movie because I had the entire movie house to myself and could sit anywhere I wanted and not worry about making involuntary noises. Nice night out.
The problem occurred when, while the family was out, I attempted to put on my shoes and in the process kicked a piece of clothing away and, in some manner unknown to me, as I was executing the kick motion, had the sensation of someone shooting me in the back, lower left side, just above my the spot where an ass would be on a normal person, with a high powered taser gun. Either that or a New Guinean aborigine with a poison blow dart hit me with damned nail..
The sensation put me right on the ground, excruciating shooting pain from my lower back down my left leg and back up again. I was rendered immobile and completely impotent (not the sexual kind the other kind) rolling around, eyes tearing up and quite unable to get up with out the sensation of severe pain.
I was also quite pissed off. I’d done something like this years ago and remember the recover and the pain and damn it all to hell anyway this is just BS.. The other thought on my mind.. the errand I was about to run after putting on my shoes.. a needed to trip to the can. Now I couldn’t even get up much less go to the bathroom.
Well, les just say as much as I hate the damn CPAP machine.. wearing Depends would be worse and if Mrs S caught me laying on the ground in my own pee.. I could crawl to the can and did so. Getting off it another story. Using the towel rack and the hamper was able to get into a standing position and that, actually was the most comfortable position I could find. I managed to walk around a bit, which felt pretty good and spend the next half hour slowly walking laps around the house waiting for the gang to get home.
On arrival Grandma suggested that I be taken immediately to urgent care for an examination and some muscle relaxers. My current health insurance really doesn’t work out of state so I had turn that down. I couldn’t see spending $1500 for an office visit for a condition that would get better over time anyway. Besides I could find my own muscle relaxants around the house, there were many different kinds in the closet to pick from. And I did.
Over the next few days I got a little better every day, the flight home sucked bad and I paid for it today but I will come around.
But, I am rather grumpy because any movement which involved bending at the waist, sends a little shooting reminder of Christmas cheer down my leg and across by back. Getting out of bed too, takes about 10 minutes to get up right with out a pulley system of some sort.
And since the most comfortable jeans I own are my painters pants.. I wanted to wear them. But I couldn’t find them. “Where are your NEW JEANS”.
F’n here we go again. A few years ago it was pointed out to me at a wardrobe intervention, that my old stone wash denim jeans, my Wranglers, you know, the ones I’ve been happily wearing since 1982 were no longer acceptable in mixed company. Nope. Now we’re all about stupid dark denim and low cut rise. An old fat guy has no business in low cut anything, and I don’t care for dark denim and certainly don’t care for tight cut legs. Oh and we’re going to pay $60.00 for a pair of denim that I can get at any big box for $9.00. $15.00 if I go with the designer label like Wrangler or Farah or Dad-N-Lad.
But she bought a few pairs and wore them for a bit and then realized that when she said “no more stonewash” she wasn’t talking about painter jeans. Painter jeans I rationalized not only had a cool loop in the side, but were also a loop hole that the local fashion police had left open for me. So over the last couple years I’ve successfully swapped out the Metro Denim for painter pants. Last summer when I was enrolled in a How To Dress For The New Millennium correspondence course I pointed out to her that one of our close friends also wears painter pants, all the time. If she lets her husband do it,
Nahnah. So imagine my joy when I opened my only gift this year for the holidays and found there in, a new pair of dark denim jeans and a damed pair of flat front khaki pants. Flat fronts.. the other kinda pant.. and I hate those as well.
“Try them on”
“Forget it I hate ‘um”
“I think they’re sexy and who knows what I would do to a…where’d'e go?”
“Whad’ya think? They’re a little low in the waist but I think they’re gonna be OK, Thanks honey.”kiss kiss.
This morning I realized my mistake. By agreeing to wear them under the vain hope of some promised congress I had implicitly given her approval to remove the offending clothing from my closet. She’s always ahead of me you know.
Or so she would think.
“Honey” I called out “Are you sure about these, they seem low in the waist, don’t want my underwear to show you know.” I would be tagged as the worlds biggest hypocrite if even an millimeter of my drawers were to show above my pants because, with two post teen boys around the house at the moment I’m heard to say no less than 100 times a day “Pull up your G-d damn pants”.
She looked at them.. “they’re a little low but that’s because of your handicap.” “Which handicap is that” I asked.. could be one of many. “the one where in your 30′s your body started absorbing your ass back into itself.” I have that middle age guy thing where I have no ass.
She went on ” But they look great.. so nice to see you in-style for a change.. well done big boy.”
Still, hiking up the drawers isn’t going to do.. but remembering that we had a box of her grandfathers stuff in the basement I went through it and found the perfect solution for nifty new jeans with to low a rise, suspenders. On they went.
The daughter caught the first glance when I came up from the basement… SCREAM and up the stairs “MOOOOOMMMM”
Mrs S came down stairs three at a time.. “OMG.. NOOooooooooo”
And for once.. I think it’s 15-Love.. for the man.
Until I go outside.