Hey. Other creampuffs. We need to get organized. Because we're all victims of a massive (with a capital ASS) conspiracy.
I'm talking about an attack on our pocketbooks, an undermining of our ability to leave the house with confidence and a ravaging of the delicate, sensitive skin of our inner thighs. I'm talking about the planned obsolescence of our pants.
Specifically the crotchal area.
The disintegration of the crotchal area of my pants has been a constant irritation, so much so that I often, given the choice, don't wear pants at ALL. The other day, however, I had to go see our real estate lawyer. And I don't have to tell you that lawyers like it when you wear pants.
I swear I have not worn these particular pants that often. Moreover, I actually inspected the crotch of the pants before I went out, just to make sure I wouldn't be breaking on through to the other side. I was about 15 minutes into my walk to the subway when I felt it. A sudden give. A windy-ness. And then . . . came then.
When I actually felt my pants disintegrate, I thought I was hallucinating. It went something like: "Surely . . . surely my pants did not just disintegrate. Surely the combination of anti-histamines, caffeine and moving-related muscle ache is causing me to imagine that my thighs are on the loose. Surely no one will notice if I discreetly waggle my hand near my crotch to check if my . . . [gasp] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
And so it was. One minute I'm a sophisticated gal about town, kickin' it to the subway and the next, I'm the lead singer in a band called the Chafetains.
I didn't have time to go back and change into uncompromised pants. I was forced instead to mince my way downtown to the lawyer's office, surreptitiously yanking my right pant-leg up every few paces to minimize the formation of angry, fucked-up-pants welts. Am I turning you on? And then afterwards, instead of my coffee shop/library plans, I had to haul ass to the DUFFERIN MALL to spend $60 that I don't have on emergency pants. And then I was so worn out and tender from my ordeal that I gave up on the rest of my day, went home and iced my crotch.
I know that I am not the only person who has suffered in this way. I also know that Worn Out Pants Crotch Syndrome is not confined to creampuffs - it just hits us earlier and oftener. And what I want to know is why is it that we can put a man on the moon but we can't make my fucking jeans last longer than two months?
I could feed you all kinds of facts about the plus-sized clothing industry and their global conspiracy to chafe me, but then I'd have to find some kind of source for these facts and that would take away from my leftover Hallowe'en candy eating time. My point is that I understand that it is not in the best interests of the clothing manufacturers to make pants that last. That's why it's up to us to deal with our pants.
What we need are some scientifically-inclined creampuffs with some spare time and an aversion to thigh welts. Together, these creampuffs could create a new creampuff pant crotch fabric - I'm thinking some kind of titanium/denim polymer. Would it be expensive? Possibly. Would it be worth it? DEFINITELY. If I'm already spending $360/year on jeans - that's almost a dollar a day, people! I could sponsor a child for that kind of money! - and not getting handjobs, then spending $250 for a pair of pants that last until I decided not to wear them anymore would be a DEAL. How 'bout it, Science?
Until this fabric miracle comes to pass, I think I'll be saying "no" to pants. Instead, you'll be seeing me about town in this little number.
The Chafetains. Heh heh.