Back in July or June or something (dates, like geography, punctuation, and fractions, are not my strong suit), I lost my pants. While you might think that’s not particularly notable because I seem to be the type of person who is always losing things like my wallet, my iPhone and my children, you’d be wrong.
See, I lost my pants in my house. Specifically, my bedroom.
Let’s be clear here, Pranksters. My bedroom isn’t particularly large or filled with dark, spooky crevices or haunted by gnomes or anything. I simply woke up one day, decided to forgo my typical “pants are bullshit” mantra for the afternoon and wear the only pair of pants that I owned (at the time). I was in the middle of my lose-the-baby-weight-crusade, which meant that I didn’t own more than one pair of pants. A missing pair of pants was a pretty big deal, indeed.
Understandably, I was a little upset. If for no other reason than it meant that if I didn’t find them, I had to go pants shopping again, something I enjoy about as much as a colonoscopy.
I made posters:
Sadly, even my crappy MISSING WHORE PANTS poster turned up nothing. I even went so far as to clean out my Magical Closet, which turned up several bags of loose diamonds* and a coupon for free pants (thanks, Gap!), but my whore pants remained recklessly in the breeze.
The Mysterious Case of Aunt Becky’s Magical Closet and Her Disappearing Whore Pants remains unsolved. The pants? They’d clearly taken off for greener, sexier, less flabby pastures. Probably the twinkly and exotic lights of Las Vegas.
I’m sure they’re happy, lovingly cradling the buttocks of someone else in some other, more glamorous locale like Detroit or Kathmandu. Besides, I comfort myself, I got a free pair of pants and some diamonds out of the whole deal. That’s kind of a win, right? RIGHT.
What I didn’t realize is that my asshole pants took something ELSE with them when they disappeared (no, not my sanity. That disappeared years ago).
Apparently, my thyroid gland is lathered up in coconut oil, wearing a jaunty sombrero, sipping Mai-Tai’s on the shores of some remote beach somewhere while being fanned by a gigantic ficus branch, my missing whore pants nearby doing the Electric Slide, drunk on cheap tequila.
It’s unfortunate, really, because I don’t think that Gap sells replacement thyroid glands in sizes 2-14 and while I suppose I could search my Magic Closet, I’m fairly sure I won’t find an extra one there.
(pithy aside! When did Gap sizing become so deliciously…flattering? Seriously, now Pranksters. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Gap, but holy balls, I’ve never been so pleased to strap on a pair of pants in my life. Perhaps I should rethink my “pants are bullshit” stance to say, “sometimes pants are bullshit like when they say numbers that make me want to go on a killing spree or collapse into a puddle of The Sads.”)
I suppose that in the end, I should be pleased that it’s just my thyroid that’s gone missing in action and not something like my intestines or liver. You know, something irreplaceable.
Not like my brain or heart, both of which I’ve been living happily – cheerfully, even – without for years.