In yesterday's post I mentioned the "disaster pants," and today I fully intend to explain the meaning behind this. I was discussing that the day of the F5 tornado, May 3, 1999, was a day that lives in infamy in my mind, and that I actually remember what I was wearing on that day. It was a brand-new outfit and it was my first time to wear it, a red button-up short-sleeved shirt and royal blue capris. They may sound cute, and believe me, they were, but those pants are like the innocent-looking Reagan at the beginning of 'The Exorcist.' One minute all cute and girly, and the next minute wreaking satanic havoc and vomiting pea soup into the faces of priests.
So yes, obviously, the first time I wore the Disaster Pants was May 3, 1999. I was a senior in high school, and I was superstitious enough to actually not wear that outfit again for a long time. It was over a year, actually, before I donned the pants again, and it just so happened that that day was the day that my grandfather died. Now, to be fair to the pants (and the way that I was rationalizing this in my mind), we were well aware that Papa's life was drawing to a close and that he was likely to pass any day. So okay, that was maybe my bad. But still, bad taste in my mouth about the pants. So I didn't pull them out for another year and a few months.
Time passes and I am now a junior in college. Too many clothes are in the dirty-laundry pile, and I really need to get to work. A glance in my closet reveals the innocent-looking pants, and I laugh at myself for having convinced myself to not wear those pants for so long. They're so cute! And they fit well! Okay, I'll put them on and wear them. What world disaster could possibly happen? These are the very thoughts I was thinking on that morning as I got dressed and drove to work on September 11, 2001. Yeah. That day.
So now I'm pissed. I honest to God watched the buildings fall and looked down at my pants, asking myself desperately, "What have I done?" Never. to. wear. the. pants. again. Ever!
More times passes and I'm now in my first year of graduate school. I'm married, 23 years old, living in Minnesota, and we're making it on our own. I'm smart now and think, It's so stupid that I could have possibly blamed two major disasters and one family death on these stupid cute pants. Fine! I'll wear them again! Funny thing is that, throughout that sunny day in May, I actually told people the story about the Disaster Pants and laughed about it with them as I was wearing them. I was probably just relieving my own anxiety, but I think the Pants thought I was goading them. So they struck back. And that afternoon, BJ sat me down and told me he had bad news. "The pants! The pants!" I'm thinking in my head, as he continues and tells me that our family dog Jake has been put down that day.
The Pants currently are folded and live in a plastic bin in my closet. They will not be worn again. I couldn't fit into them anyway, but even if I could, there is no way it's happening. I really believe in the horrible karma of those pants, worn only four days and responsible for so much grief. There is no way I'm donating them either, because if some unsuspecting person wore them, disasters would continue to be unleashed. Nope, those pants aren't going anywhere. The End.