Slacks and Purses

I’ve mentioned it before. I get a lot of wear out of my clothes.


       I’ll wear a pair of slacks until finally I go to work one day and a co-worker says, “Your pants are ripped in the back.”


       “They are?” I ask.


       “Yeah. You’re wearing light blue shiny underwear with brown Scooby-Doo dogs printed all over them, right?”




       “That’s right.”


       Indignantly, I suddenly feel the manful need to verbally defend my somewhat garish (and some might think childish) choice in underwear. “They’re silk! My daughter bought them for me, okay?”


       I back out of the room, holding my rear, past female employees.


       This really happened.


       Slacks are interesting in that they wear out many different ways.


       For example, I’ll continue wearing old slacks even though a hole has formed in the inside of my left pocket.


       This announces itself to me one day when I’m out walking and suddenly my car keys slide down and tinkle onto the pavement—out the lower end of my left pant leg.


       I justify this to myself by telling myself that I am the proud owner of the new “vento” (ventilating) pants with the greater air circulation, and an added plus, the “automatic key dispenser” system.


       Truthfully, the pocket hole doesn’t make me happy, but it’s a less serious problem than a rip at the butt, since it can’t be seen from the outside by others, and so can be ignored.


       I simply switch my car keys from my left pocket to my right. But there’s a potential problem here. For the past nearly forty years, I have for most of the time carried my car keys in my left pocket.


       Forgetting about the recent change, and crossing a street, reflexively, instinctively, I feel my leg for the car keys that should be bulging from my left pocket. But they aren’t there.




       I panic.


       No keys.


       Then, I remember, and feel them in my right pants pocket. What a relief.


       A guy nearby watching me feel my pants pockets thinks I’m a pervert.

It doesn’t convince him any different when trying awkwardly to explain, I point to my lower extremity, grin and loudly say, “I’ve got a hole down there!”


       Switching care keys for me is as serious as William Bonney, real name Henry McCarty, (Billy the Kid) switching his gun to his left side. Billy was right handed, but the single photographic plate taken of him in 1880 was made of glass, and thus reversed his image, mistakenly convincing historians for over a hundred years that he was a “left handed gun.”




       Women don’t have the same trouble with car keys through holes in their pockets. They usually don’t have pockets. Women carry their keys in a purse, a type of leather bag.




       The purse makes things disappear into an abyss more deadly, unfathomable, than the Bermuda Triangle, or the black hole from the Big Bang theory.


       Things go in and are never seen again.


       Like car keys.


       “Would you reach in my purse and pull out my comb?”


       Never never never agree to search a woman’s handbag for something she wants. You won’t find the comb. And you’ll get angry.


       Here’s what you will find:


       A ticket stub from a Rod Stewart concert dating from some time in the 1970s.




       A Velcro tweezer case without the tweezers.


       A plastic condiments tub (petrified ketchup) from a visit to McDonalds last July.


       Assorted greasy beauty aids in small cases, substances gleaned from the spit and anal droppings of whales.


       An empty nasal spray container.


       Half filled aspirin bottle.


       An unpaid crumpled up traffic ticket from 1993.


       The customary assorted hair pins.


       And a long lost state tax refund check for $3.71, that was never cashed, and like the discovery of Tut’s Tomb, sees the light of day for the first time in eons.


       When you try to understand the mind of a female, you come here first…..the purse.


       It simply can’t be done.

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