Yesterday my pants split. Luckily, it was at the end of a working day and it happened when I was leaping enthusiastically from the back of the coach into the driver’s seat (I am lazy and it takes too much time to get off and walk around). I’d just been cleaning the coach and doing lots of bendy/stretchy type motions and obviously that was too much for the very dilapidated pair of pants I wore.
I’d noticed that in the area around the linen was getting very thin – hey, I sit on it three times a week or more and things wear. Because they were black pants I made sure to wear black underwear beneath them so if the worst happened I could still blend in.
Yes, I know I should have replaced them. Do you have any idea how much I hate shopping? And clothes shopping is right up there in my Dante’s 9 Circles of Hell list.
So, being prepared, I always wore black underwear and the lack of split had made me complacent enough so that black underwear was more a habit than a wise precaution. Until yesterday, when I couldn’t find any in the laundry and settled upon a jazzy striped number instead.
Now, because it was the end of the day things were not as dire as they might have been. Except I had set my heart on sausages for dinner and everybody knows that you can’t have sausages without mashed potatoes, for which I didn’t have the fixings.
I promise I did weigh it up very carefully. I did consider that prudence, in the form of going home and changing my pants and then going out to buy potatoes, was the logical choice. But I knew that if I did go home wild horses wouldn’t drag me out again and I didn’t think it fair to make my poor husband act as my slave.
So I went grocery shopping with a huge rent down the centre of my backside and the white, with contrasting stripes, beneath screaming out “Look at me! Look at me!
This isn’t the first time I have done this but on the previous occasion I put the pants on without knowing that there was a hole and being informed of this by a member of the public (I previously thought people were just staring at me because I looked so sad and somehow my grief was worn like a shroud that made me standout. Uhh, no.) At that particular time I couldn’t care less, and the member of the public was visibly appalled that I didn’t immediately dash to a ladies room to address the issue. But I alway thought that my lack of caring was directly attributal to my emotions only being able to cope with the big issues at the time.
It turns out to be not so. Apparently this is a trait within me and although I might embarass those around me with my total disregard to appearances, that same disregard means that I am the least body image obsessed of any person I know. I think that is a healthy attitude and it leads me to be very non-judgemental on appearances, which is only a good thing. It is the outside of you and the outside doesn’t really matter.