Old Pants
I was just reminded of a pair of pants that I used to own. I hated them but I kept wearing them because I spent thirty dollars on them and I hoped one day they would fit me differently. Not differently in the I hate my body way but differently in the I hope these pants change shape way. Eventually I cut them into shorts and sprayed them with bleach. I hated them even more. I threw them out and never thought of them again.
Throwing them out — I know — not very environmentally conscious of me. Just wait until you find out how much money I’ve spent on Amazon and UberEats over the years. Do I get a pass if I have my therapist sign off on a very small, very sad piece of paper that says He was very sad and needed very many delivery chicken nuggets and face masks but he was morally conscious of just how bad it was of him to be spending his money on these things instead of those things that he should really be spending his money on? Will that satisfy you? Absolve me? Of these sins of convenience and consumerism and voting poorly with my dollar?
I also used to buy a pack of cigarettes, smoke three in a row, and throw them down a storm drain. I’d glance at the sign that says, no! Don’t throw your shit down here! This drains directly to the ocean. But then I’d do it anyway. Smoking is gross. A friend once told me that I was too pretty to smoke.
But oh, the poor fishes. They’re all probably addicted to nicotine now, chomping their little teeth away on my soaking wet Marlboro cigarettes. I can’t imagine the beautiful head rush they must have felt, sinking their sharp little teeth into my $15 pack of Marlboro cigarettes. They must have done flips all over the ocean, their head spinning, laughing hysterically with one another until the rush subsided, waiting another day or two when I would throw another pack of cigarettes minus three into the storm drain outside of my apartment, claiming I’d never smoke again.
Maybe it’s too easy for me to throw things away. Not to take such a hard, metaphorically obvious turn here, but maybe you think that I’ve thrown you away. It’s possible that I have and I have no excuses other than the fact that, well, some people are impossible to talk to and sometimes I get to the point where I don’t want to talk things out at all. I want to sit at home by myself, making as little sound as possible, taking up as little space as possible, wiping up the condensation from my glass of water the moment it hits the table, leaving to trace of myself behind.
I used to lay under my bed and stare at the underside of my mattress. I’d do this for hours at a time, wondering if that was what it was like to be in a coffin. Not that I’d ever know. If you even think of putting me in a coffin, I’ll never let you sleep again. I’ll haunt your house and turn all the lights on at night, I’ll turn your blender on with nothing inside, I’ll make things fall off the walls.
I want you to put me into a bad of seeds and grow a big, dramatic bush. I want to be a big dramatic bush that deer piss on and sleep under. I want to be around all the time, bare and scraggly in the winter months, overgrown and burdensome in the summer months. I want to be that big dramatic bush that some old lady constantly complains about because she has to constantly trim the leaves and she doesn’t have enough time in the day — between, you know, going to Church services and making a casserole and organizing those damn plastic bags under the sink. I want to be a burden. I want to cause problems.
But I know that those deer will love me. They’ll sit in my when the sun is too high in the sky and they can’t escape the heat of the Earth which will almost certainly be too hot for people to live in like I lived in it. That’s part of why the old woman is so burdened by me. She has to fit all of her activities into the three hours per day when the Federal Government allows people to carry out essential activities outdoors. Ozone Time, they’ll call it.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone will ever love me like those deer loved me. I’ve been loved twice in my life and both of them found me to be quite burdensome at times. I did anything but through them away. I wanted to give everything over to them and eventually they told me No! I can’t take any more from you! Go away little man! I don’t want you! When I think of that level of submission, that complete deference to another person, I get so scared that I feel the blood rush to my feet. It feels like my mouth is full of hot sand and my eyes fall back into my skull. To be loved by them one more time would be horrifying but I would do it tomorrow if they asked me to.
A couple of weeks ago I bought new pants. Every day, I wear them. They sit just below my waist, giving any curious onlooker a glimpse at my underwear. When I walk they move in all of the right places and every time I wash them, I hang them to dry so that they never lose their shape. I feel powerful and strong in these pants and even though there’s a stain on the back pocket I’ll never throw them out.