I hate to say it, but you’re gonna have to put some pants on.
Maybe you’re wearing pants already; I can’t tell from over here.
But Thursday was the Autumnal Equinox, and for some people (mostly scientist people and fifth graders paying attention in class), it’s primarily perceived as the time of year when the Earth is tilted neither toward nor away from the sun.
For Wiccans and neo-pagans, it’s the time of year when you’re thankful for the Earth’s bounty, and you share, and you try to keep the gods of winter happy.
The poet Keats felt this is the kickoff to the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” and the dudes on the Prairie Dog softball team take it as a signal to start planning football matches.
And that’s cool, but for me, the Autumnal Equinox means I have to start wearing pants.
You know how fast the weather turns here. Mother Nature pulls a Folgers trick on us: “I’ve secretly replaced summer with fall; let’s see if they notice.”
This morning, I walked out my door and saw the pool getting drained and covered up. This is precisely what will happen to my hard-won tan (a lovely shade darker than a fish belly) and I’m not the least bit pleased about it.
I’ve already begrudgingly begun wearing shoes, and before you cast me as a barefooted hillbilly, know this: I am one.
But I have a job in a building where other people work and don’t want to see barefooted beeyotches stepping out of the tiled bathroom and into their carpeted offices and then plopping their filthy toes on their desks. (At least that’s how HR put it.)
But now the weather is changing and I’m gonna have to face facts and put on some pants.
It’s a bummer, man. That’s a bummer.
You could probably stave it off awhile if, like me, you are willing to wear bundhosen (long German shorts) and tall socks with boots to work. But then where does your delightful tan go? Must it be shut away from everyone so soon? At its peak, no less?
Prince once wore a tight jumpsuit — wait for it — that was maybe a cheetah print, or possibly a yellow, cutout brocade reminiscent of your gramma’s couch if your gramma’s couch was a little slutty. Regardless, the important bit was that Prince’s jumpsuit was buttless.
A buttless jumpsuit.
Prince is able to tan his cheeks year ’round and that dude lives in Minnesota.
Sadly, I am unwilling to wear buttless jumpsuits, particularly given the all-staff notice HR disseminated after I wore my buttless overalls to work last March.
I’ve been racking my brain for an answer, a way to avoid pants. They’re constricting, and unflattering, and hide my knees, which have great shaving scars on them and you know how men feel about scars on a chick: good.
Solutions have ranged from “sucking it up and wearing shorts all winter ala Matt Garza” to “joining a pantless equatorial tribe.”
But Garza is protective of his style and the tribal elders have rejected my offer to partake in their housing and food in exchange for a weekly column packed with silliness.
So pants it is.
Pants for me and pants for you.
If you’re reading this online, however, I have it on good authority that you are most certainly NOT wearing pants. You are wearing a baseball cap and nothing else. It’s quite pervy, really.
Jeanine Fritz writes about pants and the lack thereof every Friday in the Colorado Daily.