Things I’m doing at 2:22 a.m. on a Saturday night.
Thank goodness I was home when I gave these pants their first test drive!
I’d invited my mother and sister over for dinner, and given that we were going to eat outside and that the mosquitos come a-hoverin’ and a-huntin’ in the evening hours, I figured it best to change out of my skirt and put on a pair of long pants. (They, the mosquitos, tend to love my ankles and lower legs, so I wanted to give them less access to me.) 🩸 Plus, I already knew my mother would make some comment about the smell if I sprayed my legs with mosquito repellant, so, lest I muck up the eating-zone area with a mosquito-repellant smell, I figured putting pants on was my best option in the moment.
I grabbed a pair of new-to-me pants off the hangar, put them on and went back outside to the dinner table.
Just like the Princess and the Pea, I could feel the tag always, everywhere, all the time. It scratched. It poked. It was there. It wasn’t going away.
I leaned forward in my seat, hoping, maybe, if I could keep my back away from the back of the pants and the it’s-so-there! tag, I wouldn’t notice the scratchiness bugging me in one specific, distinct spot. I did.
I tried tucking my button-down shirt into the back of my pants to shield my skin from the pokey-pokey-pokey tag. It didn’t work. The shirt wasn’t long enough and the meal had started, and I was reaching for this, passing that and, in general, moving around in my seat too much. Alas, the tuck-the-back-of-the-shirt-in approach didn’t solve my problem either.
After several minutes of moving around , feeling externally scratched and internally agitated as I tried to avoid the incessant feeling of the tag at the back of my pants, I realized there was only one solution for the moment, and that was to change pants … immediately. So I did. And all was well.
Fast forward: guests gone, dishes done, night writing written, I started to pack down for the night: change into my PJs, brush my teeth, put the day’s clothes in the hamper … that kind of thing.
I figured I might as well deal with “it” now and not leave “it” to some future later, so I got out my little scissors, donned my reading glasses and conducted the micro-surgery I do on the majority of my clothes; I removed the offending tag, which, truly, was one of the worst I’ve ever felt/experienced/temporarily endured.
And with that done and the world a more comfy place, to bed I go.
