My ass felt colder than usual when I got out of the car. When I made it inside and took off my coat - I reached around to feel the seat of my pants. The seat of my pants was gone. My entire right cheek was exposed. My shoulders slumped. My pants were giving up the ghost. Over a decade old - castoffs khakis from David that he had probably sourced from Value Village - my painting pants give a visual history of every paint project I have participated in.
The stark white trim from our 1st house in town. The 1/2 tint Standish White at the 2nd house - with Mayonnaise accents. The light Lilac from Rissa's room. The chartreuse and orange from the Cabaret set. Espresso brown from the front and back stairs to the basement. Prussian Blue in the bathroom. Stains and spackle and putty adorn these pants. They already have a red and white polka-dotted patch from when left half of the ass went. I have to keep them up with a belt - they're so baggy - but I feel like Katharine Hepburn in them, ready to tackle the world with moxy.
These pants are the perfect blend of softness and abrasion. The fabric so aged - if you look at it too hard it'll tear on its own, and yet there's oil based paint that roughens my hands every time I wipe paint-covered digits on my legs. I'm a colourful clown in these pants - paired with the striped painting t-shirts I do impromptu soft shoe numbers in between paint strokes. David looks at me in this get-up and adores me - I will not give up these pants!
Which meant that last night, after my sewing machine refused to comprehend the geometry of the required patching, I sat, pantless, in the family room, in front of old Veronica Mars episodes and I hand-sewed patches to the right ass of my pants. I'm unwilling to give up their history. In time, they may well become held together by only the applied patches, but that too will give me joy.