Yesterday evening at Starbucks (a.k.a. the Evil Empire), while expertly crafting a half-caf, double tall, extra hot, light whip two-pump Mocha with chocolate sprinkles, I chanced to look to my right. Bending over and scavenging for dropped change by the door was one of Colorado’s finest. His purple boxer covered butt crack shone like a thick layer of grape jelly between generous layers of jacket and pants. Bedecked in eye-popping colors that would make any highlighter squeak with envy, he rocked out in his own world of ipod earbud glory.
I was not surprised by the extra-large jacket hanging on his extra-small frame, nor was I appalled by his apparent disregard for the English language, in place of which was substituted words like “bra” (not the one that supports sagging ta-tas) and “sick” (not stuffy head, runny nose, aching throat) and “shred” (not used in conjunction with the disposal of sensitive information in the office). His slouched demeanor suggested a certain, “je ne care pas,” a flippant detachment or lassitude for the rest of the store, county, state or world — those of us whose shirts fit one person instead of three and whose pants rest comfortably just below the belly button.
No, I was not stunned by the loud assortment of clothing lounging by the doorway — but the bottom half of the ensemble deserves a moment of silence. Not out of respect or even remembrance but out of awe. Observing the gravity-defying feat of this young man’s snowboarding pants, one could not help but wonder: how do they stay on?
Fascinatingly, this fellow had managed to squish at least 32 inches of pant leg into the 15 or less inches between lower thigh and upper calf. The fascinating clothing specimen was brown and decorated by an uncountable number of designs in a wide array of colors — I could pick out a squished skull and a misshapen dollar sign on one large fold. The pants seemed to take on a life of their own when their owner moved towards the counter, their pockets gaping and squinting like something out of a Star Wars fim. The sheer bulk of the pants bunched around the kneecap made it nearly impossible to focus on anything other than their supercharged stick-on powers. I couldn’t help but muse: Was there duct tape involved? Voodoo? Superglue? Were there little, stoned pant elves holding up the show in lieu of a belt?
Doubtless, the strategic gait of the magical pant wearer aided in their sticking power. Any sort of forward movement required the wearer to angle the feet slightly out in a duck-footed movement. This lopsided gait seems to lessen the threat of immediate and inevitable self de-pantsing. The duckfoot also produces a grotesque swagger normally reserved for gangster types and heavyweights from the UFC who have just thrown a chair at their opponent’s head. The swagger and duckfoot “walk” often are paired with what a “last ditch hitch,” where the duct tape or stoned elves give way and the wearer must violently pull the pants up to mid-thigh. This is a move of desperation, as it is vital that one at all times appears to be defying logic, gravity and fashion in the name of pants that always look about like an exhausted rock climber hanging on for dear life.
So here’s to all you bro-bras and tall-tees for the conversation piece. Thanks for making extra-large shirts and oversized pants a staple item not only for the obese, but for those of us who want first tracks in the pow pow with our pants in the same position as they were earlier that morning when we were reading the wanted ads on the crapper.