I Wore Pants!

This is not a drill! My dry spell with denim has finally come to an uneventful close and also simultaneously started back up again. It's a suspensful story of love, family, drama and even hatred.......Hatred for comfort!

I'm sure you as the reader are thinking, "Quit the charming banter and bullshit filler and give me the god damn details about your denim pants adventure!"

Settle down there, eager beaver! You'll have your story. And it will in no way waste one second of your time.  Because if you're here reading on this site, you're definitely not killing time that you could be spending more wisely elsewhere. This story is so full of passion and thrilling enigmas that you might actually crap your pants. You could completely evacuate your bowels upon finishing this post. I probably should have warned you to have a fresh pair of pants nearby in the event this extremely likely scenario takes place. Hopefully you stopped reading at this point and are now near a fresh pair of pants, a shower, and nobody you love enough to not want to embarrass yourself in front of them. Or if you're really smart, you're just sitting on the toilet while reading this. Work smarter. Not harder.

Anyway, I wore pants to my family's Super Bowl party.

Because wearing scrub pants in front of them would have been more trouble than it was worth. So I wore regular pants. I can't say that I missed them. The whole time I was left wondering what my scrub pants were doing back at home. Were they ok? Were they happy in my absence? Would they still be there when I returned? The answer to all 3 of those questions was a resounding yes. But that's not the point. The point is, I wore pants to appease my family. I regret every second of that decision. I should have gone for comfort, not style. Upon returning home, I found my denim pants to be quite restrictive. The amount of salty foods I had ingested increased my waistline. Things were getting tight. Uncomfortably tight. Unflatteringly snug. My denim pants appeared to mock me as they clung tightly to my thighs like an obsessed lover. Judging me over my poor nutritional choices. So I did what any reasonable person would do: I broke up with my denim pants. I dropped them like it was hot and immediately went back to my nonjudgemental scrub pants. Scrub pants understand me. They fit with the light tug of a compliant drawstring. And just like that, I was back to normal and happy.

True story.

You may now change your pants.


Also this story was worthless and only partially true.