Crack: It’s Illegal

With few exceptions, both the family I was born into and the family I married into should’ve gone into plumbing, if the plumber’s crack stereotype holds any weight.  I’m in the minority here, as my pants are generally pulled up to somewhere around my collar bone. Unfortunately, my kids didn’t beat the odds.  Or they’re not modest.  Perhaps they just like to feel the wind lick their butt?  Whatever the reason, both Tyler and Ava follow after their daddy in the belief that pants are not made to cover butts.

When I worked at a newspaper years ago, we hired a photographer who just could not keep his pants pulled up.  He had a peculiar personality, and, because of that, no one wanted to be the one to tell him to cover his butt (for fear that he’d pull a grenade out of his fanny pack).  Finally, the editor had an epiphany and suggested to the photographer that he wear a belt.  Genius, right?  Dude came to work the next day with a belt on, but the canyon that was his arse was still exposed.  It’s like he didn’t know the job of a belt.

Belts should come with instructions — men’s belts, specifically.  You see, I’ve often had to remind my dear, sweet husband of the belt’s job.  Yes, it’s an accessory, but a functional one, much like a purse.  You wear the purse to hide all your junk.  Same thing for the belt:  Hide yo’ stuff, husband!

A couple of weeks ago, my mother and I drove an hour to my grandma’s home to set up her new iPad.  While there, I got a call from my husband.  “Are you at home?” he asked.

“No, Grandma’s.”

“Oh.”

“Need something?”

“Yes.  Stop by Walmart, buy me some pants, and bring them to work.”

“Did you forget to wear pants to work?”

“No,  I bent over and split them.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Why don’t you take extra pants to work?” I asked, because he rips them frequently.

“I had some, but I bent over and ripped my pants last week, too, so I used them then.”

“This wouldn’t happen if you’d pull your pants up!”

Click.

And then I set up Grandma’s iPad, visited with Grandma and my mom, and largely forgot about my husband’s problem.

A couple of hours later, on our way home, my mom and I drove through the town my husband works in, stopped at Walmart, and bought him some twenty-dollar dress slacks.  (Oxymoron?)  I ran them into his place of work.  Because he was in a meeting, I left the pants with one of his mechanics.  “Terrell, will you give these to my husband?  He split his pants again,” I said.

“He sure did,” Terrell said.  “It was a bad day to stand behind him.  I hope you bought him some underwear, too.  Seems he went commando today.”

None of this surprises me.

What did surprise me, however, was our conversation that night.  I asked him how he sat through a meeting with a giant, gaping hole in his pants.  He said, “Duh.  I took them off in the bathroom and stapled the seam shut.”

Moral of the Story:  This is what happens when you only pull your pants up to your kneecaps instead of your bellybutton.  It’s physics.  (I think.)  If you feel the wind tunneling down your pants, give ’em a yank.  Don’t let gravity win!