My Pants
   by brian cleary

I'm realizing that I have my neuroses (or I'm trying to realize 
some because writers are neurotic).  What I realized tonight was 
that I'm a creature of shut-in habits like so many geniuses 
muttering softly to themselves around the world.
 

Today I received three boxes of pants that my mother sent me.  
That's right;  my mother buys my clothes.  I don't like shopping 
and I don't like clothes.  I don't even know what size my pants 
are.  I only get new pants when the pair I like is dead or dying.  
Then I tell her that I would like a new pants.  I'm not sure why 
I always use the plural since I will always only like one pair 
out of three boxes and then wear that single pair until the 
crotch is gone.  Sometimes I don't like any of the new pants.  
So, I'll rummage through pants from boxes past and find an old 
pair which then becomes my pair of pants for the next four 
months.  They last four months.  How do they last four months 
despite being daily subjected to wear and tear?  By not being 
subjected to weekly trauma at the laundromat.  I don't avoid 
washing them exactly, it's just that bringing the pants to the 
laundry requires me to pick another article of clothing to cover 
my legs in their place.  I only have the one chosen pants, so it 
leaves the shorts I don't like wearing or the red and black plush 
bathrobe.  As nice as that bathrobe is, I usually just forego 
washing the pants until the next laundry cycle (or really the 
cycle after that).


I was pleased to realize that I'm neurotic about my pants.  It's 
a small thing, but it's mine.  Hopefully someday I'll be fraught 
with derangements and interpersonal weaknesses, like some 
schizophrenic pianist singing his crazy solo while masturbating 
at the keys.