I blame Amazon for what happened.

You see, last night I was scrolling through my Amazon hoping it was late enough for The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue to have gone live. It hadn’t… But I was scanning the app anyway and noticed “items every guy needs” followed with pictures of four items. Pool sliders, polo shirts, canvas watches, and shorts. I’m not talking cargo shorts, either, but the above the knees khakis that, paired with the other items, are handed to you when you walk into a country club and are christened with some name like Chad.

All it needed was a sweater to tie around your neck.

While mocking it this morning, I was reminded that we have a Chad in our department. Despite the fact that he’s constantly complaining about money and looked homeless this morning… he grew up rich in LA and Connecticut. He was on the swim and tennis teams. He used to party with David Bowie. (Not really, but he’s a snob about everything and entitled to boot so he gets mocked whenever he opens his mouth.)

(We’re not really a loving department.)

Then Serena Williams blew up my timeline. She looks gorgeous and powerful in the images and of course, we’re reminded that white folks, in general, seemed to be threatened by her. John McEnroe, in particular, is fragile when it comes to her, speaking out against her ability to compete versus men. A tweet reminded the world that Serena Williams has won a tournament while pregnant, while McEnroe has not.

(I’d also sorely love to see Williams v. McEnroe right now, just to watch a heavily pregnant woman thrash his sorry ass…)
]
THE STAGE IS NOW SET.

I went over to talk to Chad about my Williams v. McEnroe idea (because of his tennis history) and notice that there’s a cold spot on one of my thighs. For a moment I panic. Is it possible I peed my pants? I mean, I’ve had a child and so it is possible I leaked pee. That was something they warned about, right? I remember someone saying that could happen, I think…

I quickly toddled back over to my seat and plopped down. If there was a wet spot, no one would be able to see it.

Shortly after, the cute girl in the office came to tell me our meeting was canceled because she’d left her stove on and had to go home to turn it off. Could I email the team to cancel the meeting? I did, all the while thinking that wasn’t actually something that happened in real life. It’s a made up excuse more often than not in our cultural memory. In fact, I take it a step further when using it as an excuse to get out of awkward situations.

“I think I left my oven in my other pants.”

(This will be a funny coincidence in about five minutes. Not, like, ha ha funny. More like, FML funny.)

I forget about the potential wet spot until I get some Bad News. I get up to have a mini breakdown away from my desk and feel a sudden chill on my thigh again. Luckily I was heading to the bathroom anyway. I hit a stall and pulled down my pants to find…

…nothing.

Some fucking Bad Dom Fairy had removed the crotch of my pants, granting the wish of some alpha asshole dom who always demand easy access to sex organs in bad BDSM books. No matter what their partner did or did not sign up for. And I can assure you, I did not sign up for this. It’s not consensual. I do not want to wear crotchless pants at work, thank you very much.

When my panic receded (along with my giggles and pee) I was able to take stock of the pants themselves. It wasn’t that the entire crotch was gone like I’d originally feared. Or even shredded fully (my second assumption.) Instead, there was just an epic rip along the inside of my right thigh (from one seam clear to the other) and a much smaller rip along the left side. From the inside of the pants, you could see the structural strain that would lead to further rips laddering both thighs.

Now, I’m trying to be better about my body image, but this was not the way I wanted to go about it. For starters, there is a mighty AC right above my desk. Also, since it was just a tear in the pants depending on how I sat it looked like biscuit dough that was escaping it’s cylindrical prison. It had popped, but it was not fresh.(I exaggerate, of course. It was actually more like rising pizza dough, thanks to my cellulite.) Plus, as I may have mentioned I was at work.

So while it wasn’t that bad (there’s a picture, I’ve analyzed) it’s not the image I want to present at work. Ripped pants. Chilled. Low confidence. Possibility of crotchlessness high. Instead, I was forced to take an early lunch to run home and change my pants.

Turns out, I’d left my oven in my other pants…

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