pants of torture

When I was little I had a pair of black corduroy pants that were so stiff they created an unbearable chafe at the upper part of my thighs. I hated, HATED those pants, but my mother thought they looked nice, especially with a white Oxford peeking neatly from under a red pullover. It was my first lesson in fashion over comfortable function. It didn't take. As soon as I was able, I rebelled and spent most of my teen years in clothing that, should I have ever been stranded on a desert island, would have provided a suitable sail for my escape raft.

Once she made me wear the pants of torture for a plane trip on which they lost our luggage, so I had to wear the pants of torture for the next three days until they delivered our bags. I was BLEEDING from the pants of torture. I was scabby for weeks. I sometimes still wake up in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat, a reminiscent painful phantom sting between my legs. As you might imagine, I foreswore corduroy pants for years.

Occasionally though, I'll wear an idea, like I once wore the pants of torture. And sometimes, what's even worse, I'll try to stuff someone else into those pants of torture, too. I don't mean to. It's just that I think they look so nice in them. I think I think that when they realize how really, really, truly spectacular they look in them, they'll just miraculously get over the chafe. So there I am taking pictures and they're all sorts of sore and bleeding.

Stupid pants of torture. Stupid enforcer of the pants of torture.

*sigh*

I also had a velour sweater when I was the same age. I wore it so often that the velour wore thin at the elbows. It was so soft. Soft like they don't make soft for adults. I know people like that velour sweater. I wish I were a velour sweater. Or at the very least, not ever the pants of torture.