Friday, September 11, 2009

underpants


I started thinking about this post because I've figured-out pants. Actually, what I figured out is that I like wearing pants. But really, it's a specific pair of pants that I'm talking about, ... and that's not the whole story.

It's more that I have become accustomed to wearing a specific pair of pants: Black Dockers.

But it's not these pants that ... I love, ... nor is it that I really like pants that much. Rather, it's becoming "accustomed to" that which I've grown to "being accustomed."

The black dockers sort of ... fit me (emphasis on "sort of"). I wear them everyday, no less. They are indeed black, ... although they are starting to turn a lighter shade of reddish-grey where the sun sees them, ... or where my hands hit them when slapping my thighs while laughing or crying, ... feeling nervous and alone, ... or where my hands rest while living ridiculously and pleasantly as oblivious as an ostridge is to a sandstorm.

Black pants go well with shirts and ties, particularly when wearing black shoes and black belt ... and more importantly they go well with the rest of my mess. Pants are one less thing that, ... I think ... need to be worried about. They are "automatic" -- always available when I need them, busted stitches and fade. No working for, no thinking about, ... just comfortably available to abuse.

And there's the rub.

We took 12, ... yes twelve, bags of clothes to "Good Will" recently. Eee-billy-Gad, what a relief! To get rid of all baggage, ... some of those things that weigh us comfortably-down, is mighty, mighty nice.

But, my black dockers were not a part of that party. And it's not for the fact that many other garments deserved a lesser destiny than to ... succumb to thoughtless and effortless slaps from the sun.

They, my black dockers, were salvaged much like other things in my life because ... I am afraid to give-up, to turn-over, to live, to be alive, ... to trade-away those things which make me feel ... safe????

The fact is that I am afraid, and becoming "accustomed-to" is the hole-in-shifting-sand that I find myself hiding in. I hold onto those things which by no means, ... as they say, ... "become me," ... as told in a story greater than I have the capacity, proclivity and authority to write about.

And for anyone looking, these pants are terrible. I imagine that onlookers gawk. They are most probably asking themselves, ... in small groups comprised of hip-folk in smart shorts and neck-ties, or in cooly-ripped and prefabed-damaged jeans, "why is this weird guy wearing these stupid pants ... and why is there sand in his hair?"

So, from now on, ... when I perceive that my head is buried, ... when I am hanging onto things that clearly are not "becoming," ... perhaps the very first thing that I should do is take the pants off, ... leaving, ... for all on-lookers, ... the sight of arms and legs dangling in the air like a naked Halloween ornament.

And now for underwear, ... marching on.

1 comment:

Kelly said...

Very thought provoking. I love getting rid of my "stuff". But yes, there are things I still hold onto. It's a journey and the end will be magnificent. But sometimes the getting there is not.