So I’m minding my own business (watching a robin pull a worm out of the damp soil) and my wife, Sherry, says, “You should throw away your old pants.”
I say, “My pants look as good as new, particularly my brown pair and the gray ones I bought on sale at Bledsoe’s.”
Sherry takes on a snarky tone. “Bledsoe’s closed over a decade ago.”
What comes next bothers me the most. She gets my gray pants from the closet and shines a high-intensity flashlight through the rear end. Now, we all know any pants would look a little thread-worn under such high-beam scrutiny.
I don’t speak. Sherry does. “We are going to the concert tonight, and I’ll be with my husband who is wearing a new pair of pants.”
This is where my many years of experience pay off. I don’t argue – I get ready to search for pants.
As I grab my car keys, I ask, “Do you think I’m still a 32-inch waist?”