This postSometime within the last few weeks, a hole has eaten its way into the righthand pocket of one of my pairs of dress pants. Originally small (as most holes begin), it is now a bit larger than a quarter — almost to the point where my keys will start rappelling down my leg when they get bored. Without a rope.
Let me introduce my other pair of dress pants. A few months ago the hem came down while I was at work, and it got in the way while I was walking, so I stapled it in two places. I did intend to remove the staples and sew the hem back together again, but the staples are still in that pair (the pair I’m wearing today, actually).
While these may be seen as imperfections in both pairs of pants, on my walk up to campus this morning I realized that I’m hesitant to fix them. It’s as if my pants have taken on lives of their own — identities, characteristics, personalities. My one pair is Holy, the other pair is Staples. They have names, they have histories. How could I even think of killing off my darlings? For shame.
Returning to the title theme of this post, all of my black socks now have holes in them. Every single one of them. At first I was self-conscious about it, but now I wear them with pride. They’re like flip-flops for nerds. And in a way I feel like I’m in league with Achilles. (Incidentally, I’ve got my Aeneid midterm at eleven today, so I’ve been chugging Latin poetry down like it’s the strongman competition or something. I’m at the part where Aeneas sees a mural depicting Achilles as he drags Hector’s corpse around the walls of Troy three times. That’s not why I feel like I’m in league with Achilles.)
And yes, I do plan to buy a new gaggle of socks as soon as I get the chance. But I think my pants are going to stay the way they are.
