An Open Letter to My Pants

Dear Pants,

Hey, Pants. What's up? I think we need to talk about what happened yesterday. I know you have a lot going on, so I'll refresh your memory in case you've forgotten.

It was about 4:00 in the afternoon. I had just returned to the office after running an errand and Puppy was pretty happy to see me. He's like that. Sometimes when I take the trash out, I return to find him sitting by the door with his tail wagging like, "I missed you!" It's an ego boost, but also a little disconcerting because I imagine that this is what it will be like someday when my parents descend into the depths of dementia.

Anyway, Puppy was being all cute and playful, and when he picked up his toy I bent down to play tug-of-war with him. And, Pants, this is where you come in.

It sounded just like it does in the movies, which surprised me because nothing sounds just like it does in the movies. The first time I was punched I remember thinking "Ouch" and then "But that didn't sound like THWUMP?" But no, this was just like so many slapstick comedies I'd heard before – a slow, burning rip.

So there I am bending over playing with Puppy, ass seam undone, and for a second I am frozen in fear. Whoever said there is nothing to fear but fear itself clearly never ripped open their pants in an office with a 90% female population. It's pretty scary.

Clearly, you put me it a difficult position, Pants. I rose slowly, scuttled to my desk, and sat down. Then I tried to surreptitiously reach my hand under my butt to assess the damage. This proved tricky. Have I mentioned I work in an office full of women? Touching anything in the groin-ish area is really frowned upon. Being innocuous isn't an option; if you're not careful you could quickly be labeled The Guy Who Touches His Butt at His Desk. And everyone would come to know you by that because if you're not The Guy Who Steals Other People's Cereal or The Guy Who Wears Big Shirts, then you must be The Guy Who Touches His Butt at His Desk.

Just as I finished assessing the damage (assessment of underwear showing through gaping hole in my pants: not good), Brooke came over to my desk and asked if I'd join her in a meeting. "I can't," I replied, to which she replied, "Why?" to which I replied, "Um . . ." to which she replied, "I'll see you in the meeting." I'm not gonna lie – I blew that one.

So I put on a sweater and pulled it down low before going to the meeting. I sit down, and when anyone asks me to reach for something or pick up something from the floor I roll there in my chair. In fact, for the rest of the day I make rolling around in my chair an art. I do it with a blasé nonchalance, as though it truly is easier for me to roll my chair over to a co-worker's desk than to stand and walk there. This gets me through to the end of the day, at which point I put on my shoulder bag to cover my rear end, and make my exit.

Pants, this is unacceptable. You have two jobs: 1. Hide my junk, 2. Make me look stylish. And if you're only going to do 50% of your job, it should always be the half that includes hiding my junk. That is paramount. What's more, when I finally told Brooke what happened when we got home, she called me fat. "It's okay, Fat Ass," she said. "Maybe you're just retaining water." I'm not sure, but I think she was implying that I got my period. I hope you understand, Pants, why I can't open myself up to jokes about having my period. Brooke is a clever girl. Those opportunities won't slip by her.

So here I am at work today, and I think I managed to fool everyone – this time. I don't know how lucky I'll be if it happens again. And of course Brooke isn't letting it go so easily. When I reached for a cookie after dinner, she said, "Are you sure?" Just now, in fact, Brooke came over to my desk all serious-like and said, "I need to talk to you about something." Then she whispered in my ear, "You have a fat butt."

Next time do you fucking job, Pants.

Sincerely,
Dan