Not Buying Corduroy Again Any Time Soon

I’ve never considered myself thin. I’ve got some weight to me. I’ve never considered myself fat, either. Saturday, my pants didn’t share that opinion.

Irma Vep ended last night. (More on that later *sniff*.) Our producer and personal Wonder Woman Gina threw the closing party at her place. After stopping at a 7-11 to pick up the token chips and beer (neither of which ended up being needed, hooray for bountiful parties), I was getting back into my friend’s car and tchrrrriiip!

I froze. My friend, McCall, looked at me with eyes and mouth agape. I put down my parcels, and found out that the corduroy slacks I’d worn decided to make like an atom and split. The rip was huge. I called my best friend, Pedro, and asked if he wouldn’t mind bringing me a pair of pants. (I’ve been crashing with Chris for the last few nights since it saved on mileage to the theatre and also, he’s my best friend.)

McCall drove us from the 7-11 to the theatre, and she was laughing the entire way. Her stomach hurt she was laughing so much. Oy.

I got new pants. The old pants (ruined past the point of salvage) went in Gina’s trash. I told McCall: Any party where a pair of pants ends up in the trash is my kind of party.