It all started with a pair of pants.
Well, of course it didn't really, but for the purposes of this story, those particular pants stirred more than any other pair has in a while. The last pair of pants that pulled this much out of me got captured on film, then that 35mm evidence was ripped to shreds some months later in a bitter I-hate-you-and-don't-want-to-look-at-this-and-remember-those-pants
Anyway. So I wear these pants a lot. These little, grey, ankle dockers that are kind of cheesy, but so fucking cute. They make me feel like I live in some pretend fabulous world of preppy fashion that I don't belong to. I got them at J Crew for Christ's sake, but whatever.
It was a silly moment, really. I took them off to shower after getting home from the gym and haphazardly threw them on the bed. I didn't notice them lying there for a while later, but as I opened the door to my room I walked in to see them perfectly crooked in a jack-knife position on the edge of my bed (butt pockets up) as if they had been on their way to some event and I had caught them red-handed. I don't know why, but the sight of my pants in action made me smile. Teeth and all, to no one in particular. I left them there for a while as I carried on my nightly routine because I was so amused.
Later, when I folded and put them away, it made me sad. Some how I felt like I was putting away a part me. I know that makes no sense. Its just a pair of grey pants I wear to work sometimes, but seeing them sprawled out on the bed like that made me want to drop the weight of myself down on my Sam's Club mattress and curl up with that secret ally of my personality and find out more. Where were they going? Who were they set to meet?
I guess that's crazy, really. Wishing a pair of pants to life. Yet, here I am laying on my bed, wearing another pair of pants that I can't help but question. They are red. Like really red, too-funny-for-words red. Elizabeth Taylor's favorite color of lipstick red, and I am wearing them on my lower-half, drawing every ounce of attention to my bright, red ass. Fucking hilarious. I feel like a teenager. I'm not sure if its because I bought them for $20 at H&M upstairs in what I'm pretty sure is the Teen section, or if its because they are so tight I am slightly worried that I have a camel toe. Nobody likes that, no matter what age.
Here I lie, next to the ghost of my grey preppy pants- clouded with escape on their mind- in red, fuck me jeans, high heels and a bra.
Who am I? More importantly, who are these pants? Oh god, my pants are having an existential crisis. Its not just a matter of clothes giving us added personality, I think its more that clothes have their own life that we have to figure out how to coexist with. Hmm. No wonder people are so damn nervous all the time. They're always worried that other people can hear what their T-shirt is saying.
And here I thought personification was left to fiction...
Hell, art imitates life, right?