when your pants fall apart, just like your life

Apparently, as I’ve learned the hard way after the first day of school, it’s not enough to just worry about school supplies, finding classrooms, and making adequate first impressions on people in your grade you’ve gone to school with for three years but have somehow never seen before in your life. You also have to worry about your clothes evolving into sentient beings who make multiple attempts to ruin your life as payback for all the times you’ve thrown them across your room.

shorts
… wait for it…

Monday morning, I woke up around 8:20 (school starts at nine), which would have been a perfectly adequate time if not for the fact that I hadn’t yet gathered school supplies. So I set my brain into overdrive, slapped together ten folders despite there only being four periods in a school day, snatched my drill team practicewear, and basically teleported from home to my classroom in under five minutes.

Nothing really happened during first period math besides the teacher blindsiding us with actual work, so we’ll fast forward.

Monday, 10:35 AM, Dance Locker Room

I swing the door open to hear the panicked wails of teammates who’ve just realized they’ve forgotten important parts of their practicewear, like black leggings or jazz shoes, at home. Cries of “does anyone have an extra ____” rise up in the air and coalesce into a collective groan of unintelligible frustration.

The corners of my mouth drop into a frown and I shake my head exaggeratedly from side to side, as is the custom around here. Like, “I don’t have an extra shirt that you can borrow, but I hope that this display of overt sympathy will lessen the demerit-induced terror you must be experiencing right now, even though I know from firsthand experience that it won’t.”

I do pity them, but I’m also slightly amused. I mean, it’s the first day of school, and people are already forgetting things. Unzipping my own duffel bag and setting down my folders, I placate my conscience with the thought that they really should know better, and am suddenly met with a horrifying sight.

My bag is completely empty. I have been carrying an empty bag around school and I didn’t even notice until now.

I’ve forgotten all of my practicewear at home. I think back to this morning and clearly recall taking all of the items off the hangers and placing them in my bag. But that fails to explain why my clothes are nowhere to be found, so the only logical explanation is that they all sprouted wings and flew away.

Fortunately for me, though, the first day of school introductory video is being shown during second period. After an earful over the phone with my mom, I miraculously get the okay from my dance instructor to run to the front office to pick up “things,” and I am saved from my own stupidity. Crisis averted.

12:15 PM, Dance Locker Room

Practice, which generally consisted of a lot of shouting, blisters, and whining, is over. I’m currently easing up my high waisted shorts so they don’t get stuck on my unbelievably sweaty skin and tear, because that just feels like something that would happen to me.

The shorts are all the way up, and, giddy in my success, I pull up the zipper, which is located on my side for some odd reason. Turning to close my locker, I see it.

tragedy
a tragedy

My zipper is broken. The slider is all the way up, but there is a huge gap in the chain, which runs down my side. My tucked-in white shirt is visible through it, as is the top of my underwear.

For a minute, I just stand there. The bell rings for the new six-minute passing period (they shaved off one minute from each passing period, but the extra four minutes didn’t even get added to our thirty minute lunch time, which renders them basically useless), and I remain frozen in mute horror.

Me: Um, Teammate. Do you have a safety pin?

Teammate: *frowns and shakes her head in exaggerated sympathy* No, I’m sorry! *runs out the door*

Me: … That’s fair, I guess.

Because oh, the irony.

Me: Hey, Teammate #2. My zipper just broke. Do you have a safety pin?

Teammate #2’s eyes widen to comical proportions and she asks the remaining people in the locker room if they have safety pins. Someone does. I lift my left hip so she can try to fix this mess.

Teammate #2: *stares at safety pins* This isn’t going to work.

Me: Okay. Cool.

Teammate #3: Oh, no! Try putting your purse over it.

I do so. It covers the spot exactly, if I stand completely motionless, that is. But it’s definitely better than nothing.

Teammate #2: Are you going to blog about this?

12:20 PM, English

The first thing I say to the first familiar faces I see—after not having seen them all summer— is “hey, I ripped my pants.” Turns out it’s a great conversation starter. I recommend you all try it sometime.

After that ordeal, I vowed I would never let insubordinate clothing get the better of me again. So the next day, before morning practice, I packed two pairs of jeans, just in case.

Mom: That seems unnecessary.

Me: This is me showing uncharacteristic foresight. I think you should be prouder.

Because, as it turned out, there was a hole in one of the pairs. Who’s laughing now??


7 thoughts on “when your pants fall apart, just like your life

  1. Your post & post title ➖ “when your pants fall apart, just like your life” I love it -and- I’ve been there done that! LOL 😁
    ~brïdgêtté

    Liked by 1 person

  2. What is even more of a giggle is that in the UK pants aren’t pants, they’re pants. And as an expression, ‘pants’ can also mean ‘bogus’. But I, like you, have split my trousers to reveal my pants…if you see what I mean. BTW thanks for a the like on my blog too.

    Liked by 1 person

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