I’m not old, but I’m kinda old, Mason is kinda old. We have both been married to other people for a considerable amount of time. Taking both of those factors into consideration, we understand that we know what we like, what we don’t like, and we know how to compromise. We have both figured out how to maneuver with our idiosyncrasies and what I call the “je ne sais quoi”. There isn’t much we have to maneuver around, we are pretty much the same person with the exception of laundry.
Mason folds laundry. He also has OCD, so I don’t get in the way of his laundry folding tactics, mostly because he has a “t-shirt folder” that is archaic, even the clerks at the Gap would have zero appreciation for it. This thing is so draconian it looks like a torture device. Mason also numbers his socks. Numbering socks is fine, so long as he doesn’t stop numbering them so if I do attempt laundry folding I’m not cursing at socks with no numbers, half numbers, hieroglyphs, and cave drawings. With the utmost respect for his laundry, I just try to avoid touching it. He tries to blame it on Warrant Officer Candidate School and use our friend Mo with her identically anal retentive laundry folding tendencies to validate himself. I’m pretty sure I just made up a new classification term albeit not grammatically correct (or properly punctuated). No matter, it’s still a fact.
One day, during laundry folding duty, Mason approached me, the only pair of sweatpants I own (fitted, lovely, designer sweatpants, mind you) neatly folded, and calmly yet assertively stated, “I hate these!” I stared at him, waiting for the rest of the verbal onslaught against my precious comfy pants. He continued, “They don’t do you justice, you are a beautiful woman and these are horrible! They belong at the bottom of your drawer, if not in the trash entirely. I hate them!” He seemed to be finished.
I took a deep breath, raised my eyebrows as much as my Botox would allow, sighed, and had to explain that these are my period pants. These are the pants I wear when I feel like a balloon, or I have the flu, I’m gross, exhausted, and not even interested in trying. It might be ten at night, I’m tired, and Grey’s Anatomy is queued up on the DVR, I have a bag of Cheetos and I plan to fall asleep with my face in that bag. These are my comfy pants!
Guess what Dear Reader? He did not care! He did not sympathize! He inhaled ready to speak again, and he did! “These pants should ONLY be worn when you have your period, the flu, AND we need to dispose of a body, AND the clothes we are wearing!” My brain immediately went to, “We would never get away with putting our recycling in the wrong bin let alone a body!” but alas, that did not matter! Mason kept talking! “I wouldn’t DARE give you fashion advice. I am the LAST person to even call themselves fashionable…” While he was still talking I wasn’t listening, I was remembering the time I might have told him to leave a shirt here that might have found it’s way into the fire pit. In my defense, and the defense of that shirt, it was a nineteen eighty-horrendous era, acid wash, v-neck, freak show that he acquired about five years ago. It HAD to go. I gave it the most Viking like send off I could. To be honest he had two. I think the other one ran for its life over to the Goodwill shop, which explains why I saw them burning things just last month.
Back to Mason and what has become his soliloquy on my period pants. I had gone back in time one year, reminisced, destroyed offensive shirts, had a Viking funeral, and returned to present day. He was still talking, now apologizing for ending a sentence with a preposition. How I wish I were paying more attention! He is such a fine speaker, and he apologizes more than necessary because his speech was more amusing than it was objectionable. He was making his stand!
“If these ever go missing, I disavow all knowledge of it!” Harrumphing away to gently put my sweats near my dresser. What a gentleman. Such a fine man; he was careful to fold my despised sweats, and gingerly put them back, despite his abhorrence for them. Regardless, I am soon to be without comfy pants.
Or maybe not.
A few days later, Mason proudly emerged from his closet in HIS period pants. He would never call them that; he called them his ugly pants. Ugly indeed. They are Nike sweatpants that look like they were designed to be the “comfortable version of Class A dress pants”, (his words) in blue with a yellow stripe down the side leg. My mind went crazy. This was my chance to make a stand for my period pants, and win. He lovingly referred to their relaxed fit, elasticity (despite the lack of elastic for maybe five years), and all their other various virtues while I just wallowed in what I thought was my period pants victory. Then he said it was time to throw them away. “NOOOO!” came out in a slow motion scream I couldn’t even stop. He had to keep them! If he kept them, I could keep mine. He took them off, and like a nineteen eighty-horrendous era b grade action television show, I leaped over furniture, still in slow motion, my bed head hair looking like a mullet, arms stretched, rolling through the air like a member of the A-team, the theme music from Charlie’s Angels playing in my head, grabbed the pants, and ran a whole three feet to hide them, and save them. Quid pro quo, Clarice. quid pro quo.
Nothing takes the place the sweats, not even leggings! He’ll never take them alive.