Member-only story
There’s a Hole in My Pants
And I don’t give a damn.
I have a favorite pair of pants that I wear…let’s just say, “a lot.” They’re black, yoga-style and very comfortable. As the saying goes, “they move with me.”
Apparently, they’ve been moving with me longer than they should as I spotted a whole on the ass-side this morning. A little one, not large enough to reveal my scanties, but a hole nonetheless.
Because I wash these pants frequently, it stands to reason that the fabric has worn a bit thin. As has my world-view. Thin, and tired.
As I pulled them on to go for a walk, it occurred to me that I didn’t give a shit about the hole and the feeling wasn’t freeing, as I might attest if I was in a more positive head-space, but instead, it was disturbing.
It disturbs me that I no longer care. That a wire inside my brain has come loose and I’m not the person I once was. Like the rest of us, my “sheltering-in-place” has put me in my place. A fucking scary place.
With the prospect of the quarantine lasting for another year or longer, why should I give a flying fuck if my clothes are ragged? Or my ends are split? Or my nails are unpolished? Or my collection of red lipsticks has been gathering dust in a drawer unused, for several months now?
