If Pants Could Talk
Hey, you two little twerps, now you listen here:
We might be old. And we might be made of corduroy, one of the most durable materials in recent history. But we are tired—TIRED, we say!—of the way you two treat us when the Villanos hit the road as a family.
I know what you’re thinking, kids. YOU’RE the daughters and we’re the pants. You’re sentient; we are not. You’ve got hearts, brains, free will and all sorts of organs, while we consist of nothing more than fabric, thread, some zippers and a pocket or two. Well, we might be simple, but here’s a news flash for you: WE HAVE FEELINGS, TOO.
L, this means we’re tired of you spilling your milk all over us. Three times in the last three weeks, you’ve failed to grab your cup with two hands and carelessly knocked it over onto us. Sure, you’ve been stoked when you’ve realized the spills haven’t ruined the precious pictures you have colored during meals.
But, princess, those spills have gotten us SOAKED.
R, you are more of a solid-spiller. Mushy lemon cake, yogurt, cheesy (scrambled) eggs and tomato guts from Mommy’s salad are among the items you’ve dropped on us over the last few weeks. Then, of course, there was the incident earlier today, when, aboard a train (from England’s Lake District back to London), you knocked over a whole glass of rose wine onto our crotch.
The rose was the last straw. Especially considering how the wine seeped down the crotch and around the back, making it look as if your father had wet AND soiled his pants, we had to take a stand.
Which is precisely why we’re writing this note.
For whatever reason (perhaps it’s our good looks? Or maybe our versatility?), your father likes wearing us on travel days. He counts on us. And if you girls keep dumping and spilling stuff on us, he might opt for another pair. Because the one thing we don’t do is dry quickly.
And so, kids, we are begging you: SHOW US SOME RESPECT! We’re not rags! We’re pants, and your daddy’s favorite pair at that. We look forward to having the opportunities to ride horses in the Sahara, watch whales in the South Pacific and circumambulate Manhattan Island. Please don’t spoil our chances by ruining us first.
Dad’s green cords