I had to put pants on to write this. That’s a major sacrifice, I want you to know.
My housemate’s journeying to the United Kingdom so she might ride British rail, but she’s mostly staying downstairs these days. So the pants are going on for her sake. She doesn’t care anyway, with those lips? Ugh. Greatest friend in the world, sure, except for my wife, but if I come wandering down to the kitchen in a thong, I assure you, my dear housemate’s just going to groan.
They’re not on for my spouse’s sake, either. My spouse is basically a slightly forgetful Elder God. They’re a genius-level intellect, and sometimes when I spell out my desires in salt amazing things happen. These are sometimes pants-based miracles, but generally they’re related to food. We’ve been married ten years. Sex is all well and good, but we’ve never really had a dry spell. Everything’s about food now. Sometimes in a pantsless moment I’ll gasp for breath, stretch, and we’ll both say to the other, “So what do you want for dinner?”
I do all the cooking. It’s important to be useful when you’re chief cultist. Never know when an Elder God might awaken and demand fancy Italian sausages.*
The pants definitely aren’t going on because of guests. We own a ridiculously huge house and therefore rarely have guests. Who wants to clean this place? Not this guy, unless my housemate’s decided all sugar should live on the floor, or if the Elder God speaks with one of its eleven mouths in a dialect that’s hauntingly familiar, and also interested in the front steps being swept.
The really fun guests don’t want my pants to stay on, anyway, so really it’s win-win.
Nope, the pants are going on because we had our first frost last night. I’ve had a bunch of broken bones, I have arthritis in my hands and hip. I hate the cold weather. And in a house this size, only a few rooms at a time are truly warm. Normally my day consists of wandering downstairs in my shorts, scandalizing my housemate, getting ready for the day and writing a bunch. None of this requires pants. Indeed, bothering my housemate is in no way benefited by my wearing pants, unless they’re her pants because my butt continues to look like an 18-year-old’s.
But the cold? Pants weather. In fact once the pants go on, the thermals generally go on, too, though those go under the pants and not over them, if you’re playing at home. There was frost on the roof today, so on go the thick wool socks. I haven’t got much hair for personal reasons so I’ll wear a hat until April, I’m sure, even when I’m indoors. Maybe I’ll wear gloves to type.
But really it’s the pants that bother me. I can put up with shirts. I have burns all up and down my chest from cooking frozen chicken in a wok during a hot summer. I wasn’t wearing a shirt then. The chicken fell out of the packaging, landed in the hot oil, and the oil went everywhere. My brother thought I’d been hit by lightning. So there’s a place for shirts in my life.
When my roommate wants to scandalize me, by the way, she goes around without a shirt. A man has never become inured to a set of tits quicker than I have with my housemate’s. We call it a Code Chartreuse around here. Usually she’ll scream out the code call when she’s about to enter the room, though, so it’s not super helpful.
But I digress. Pants. The worst. Sure I can carry stuff in them, though I maintain that’s what backpacks are for. Sure they keep me from burning my legs or my naughty bits when I’m cooking frozen chicken in hot oil. And I’ll admit that some guests, like family, prefer it when I’m not wandering around naked trying to get dinner together for them. Pants have their uses, absolutely. But it’s not a whole lot of use, really, and mostly it just means winter is here. And I can’t stand winter.
Winter’s when crimes are committed. It starts on my front porch with the Jack o’ Lantern. This year I’ll have photographic evidence for you, I promise. The little bastards can’t keep getting away with it.
Happy writing, and good luck with pants,
Adam Brink
*Not a euphemism – I’m Ukrainian and English, allegedly, though I tan like nothing else. Also, if I called someone else’s penis “fancy” would that be a compliment? I implore you, do not call your lover’s dingdong “fancy.” Unless it’s got a little bow-tie or something. Maybe then. I don’t know, you do you.
