Somehow, my decidedly metrosexual husband is the hardest person alive on a pair of pants.
I'm totally not kidding when I say he has to buy new pants several times a year. He works in an office. At a desk. He's not out running around. He never has to fix things. He's not even like those kids on the Gap commercials from a few years ago. Yet? Somehow his chinos always end up with holes in them after only a few months.
Additionally? He is EXTRAORDINARILY picky about his clothes. Shocking, I know.
To make it all extra fun? He's a really unusual size.
Thus? When he found out recently that the Izod outlet where he has purchased his pants for the last four years no longer stocks his favorites? Well. I thought I was going to have to drive him to the hospital. You know how he was about his beard brush? Multiply that by about 9000 and you've got the reaction to the no-longer-in-stock pants.
Since, clearly, this would not do at all, he conducted an exhaustive search for pants (which included, and you just wish I was kidding about his, insisting to people at the local JcPenney store that the Izod website said they stocked that type of pants and couldn't they just check again?) and finally managed to locate ONE pair at a local Belk's store. Which I graciously agree to go procure since he was cutting up the trees in our yard with a borrowed chainsaw.
So I go to the store and the dear, sweet lovely lady behind the counter? Is approximately two hundred.
I said, "My husband called and someone set aside some pants for him."
She looked utterly perplexed. Seriously, so perplexed that, despite her huge namebadge that said, "HAZEL" and "BELKS" I wasn't sure she worked there.
"Pants?" she said disorientedly (is that a word? I'm calling it a word).
"Yes," I said slowly. "Izod chinos?"
She looked like I had just stabbed her husband.
See, sometimes I forget that I live in East Tennessee and people don't say things like "chinos" or "excuse me" or "yes, I went to Yale".
Okay that was mean as hell. I'm sorry.
Anyway, I said, "You know. Khaki pants?"
She walked around the counter to where a large rack of clothing was hanging. I could see, clearly, a pair of Izod Chinos (sorry, KHAKI PANTS) on the rack that had a large label on them that said, "Hold for Jason".
"Those," I said, pointing. "My husband's name is Jason."
She looked at me and smiled. I swear I thought she understood me.
She then looked through the entire rack of clothing. Piece by piece.
"I think it's those," I said, walking over to get closer and pointing again.
"What's your husband's name?"
"Jason. See? Those say Jason."
"What's his last name though?"
"He didn't GIVE his last name," I said. "He told me before I left the house that he just said 'Jason'. Those are the only Izod pants on the rack. Those must be his."
She looked unsure.
"Why wouldn't he give his last name?" she looked perplexed. "That doesn't make sense. What if these aren't his pants?"
"Ma'am," I said patiently. "My husband's name is Jason. This is his size and his brand. Also? I have cash money. I will pay you for those pants. If they belong to some other man named Jason who just happens to be that same size and will only wear Izod chinos with the pleat in the front and the cuff at the bottom? Well, we can both feel very sad for him later."
She stared at me for a moment and then started to ring up the pants.
But first she couldn't find the price tag, even thought it was in her hand.
And then she tried to convince me to purchase a pair of Dockers.
And then she waxed poetic for a moment on the name Jason.
Then she told me her back hurt. Bless her heart.
Finally, she scanned the bar code. For the love of Christ.
"Can I have your phone number?"
I told her. Her face lit up in recognition.
"I live in the South part of town too!" she exclaimed. "I live..."
and then? And I'm totally not kidding about this. She gave me EXACT DIRECTIONS TO HER HOUSE. Then she DESCRIBED THE HOUSE.
Only. In. The. South.
I came home, threw the bag of pants at my beloved and said, "YOU HAD BETTER LOVE THESE PANTS SO MUCH YOU WOULD MARRY THEM IF I DIED."
He took them out of the bag and looked at them, "Thanks baby. I hope this line right here comes out. See how they sat folded on the shelf for so long? It makes that really weird line in the middle that you just can't get out no matter what you do. See? I really hope that comes out because that is just so weird. That little thin line. I hate that line, don't you?"
He looked up and I was staring at him.
"What?" he asked.
"Can I buy whatever drugs you and that old lady who sold me the pants are partaking of at the drug store? Or do I have to find a street dealer?"
The people? Wear. Me. Out.