Mickey and the Reverse Stranger

Hey, does anyone know why underwear/jeans/pants/glasses (optical, not drinking) are called a pair even though there is only one object? I ought to write my congressperson about that. What other singular items can you think of that are called a "pair"?

I've been needing some new jeans for a few months now. My old ones were a little loose in the waist, because my ex-wife got half of my body-fat as a condition of our divorce. Although I still have some old jeans from before sedentary married life made me krëgnant and exploded my waistline, those old pairs were looking a bit threadbare. Also, it appears I tried to nurture some denial and wear one pair into the second trimester of my krëgnancy, as the button-hole for the top button is blown out.

So I went to a few local department stores a few nights ago before "band" practice to see what was available. I was thrilled to discover that my waist now matches my inseam, so now I only need to remember one number when shopping for pants. Sweet! Less brain clutter! However, I was saddened to discover that the store was out of my favorite color of denim, a color I like to call "nerd-indigo".

A few hundred phases of the moon past, when I was in high school, this particular shade of pant was the LEAST socially acceptable. If ever a teenager needed to signal from afar a desire to be outcast and isolated, jeans this color were a safe bet. Also, if one was unlucky enough to have parents that "didn't understand" or "weren't cool," it was a sure thing one would end up in these dark blue life enders.

At least, that's how I felt back then. Fifteen (twenty) years later, I've come to love nerd-indigo for its rock-bottom prices, durability, and ability to hide gravy stains. Further, after roughly two hundred cycles through the wash, they fade out nicely, just about the time they get broken in. So these days, I'm all about the nerd-indigo.

There's only one problem.

I can't find the color ANYWHERE anymore. I tried three different stores, and got blank looks from most clerks. "You know, the color only a total dork would wear? Really dark blue?" Nothing. At the third store (Macy's), I found some pretty dark pants, and better still, they were in my size. I went to the fitting room, but before I could even put them on, I saw a problem. I took them out to the octogenarian clerk and told her that the store had stocked defective pants. "Oh no, sir. Those pants are supposed to have permanent wrinkles at the cuffs and the backs of the knees. That's the style now." What? Now it is stylish to have permanent wrinkles in clothes? Fuck, I guess I was being a trend setter during all my college years. Also, apparently this depression-era old lady knows more about fashion than I do. She's so cool, she's probably going to an all-night rave later. Ecstasy, glow sticks, pot, techno, whip-its ... she'll be into it all. Suddenly, I felt like a fourteen-year-old dork again. Sweet.

Settling for a few pair of less-indigo jeans (sans wrinkles), I began to make my way back downstairs and towards the exit. As I neared the doors to the parking lot, I encountered an elderly couple helping another man into his jacket. Closer inspection revealed that the third man was probably about fifty, and on the wrong end of the intelligence quotient bell-curve. I've always believed the tenet that it is impolite to stare at people (unless they have huge tits and/or are incredibly hot and sexy), so my eyes didn't linger long on the threesome. My mind on the other hand, began to try to tack a back story to them. The elderly couple were probably Mickey's (so named because of the Mickey Mouse on his jacket) parents. They had probably been taking care of his every need for the past fifty years. He was probably taken with them whenever and wherever possible, not only because he needed to experience the world, but also because the world needed the addition of Mickey's personality and character, such as it was. Probably.

As I walked to my car, I couldn't help but wonder what would become of Mickey over the next decade. His probably parents wouldn't live forever, and when they passed, Mickey's probably love-filled life would be irrevocably changed. Would he end up in a group home? Would he wind up on the streets? And why the hell did my brain suddenly seem to give a sh!t?

In order to eradicate my depressing line of thinking, I quickly rewrote my imaginary back story. The elderly couple was probably Mickey's court-appointed guardians, who had to step in after Mickey's probably opiate-addicted mother was sent to prison for probably committing lewd acts with a mule. His guardians were probably buying Mickey some warmer clothes so he wouldn't get too cold waiting in the car while they probably did meth at a rave with the Macy's clerk. Yeah, that's a better scenario. ... No wait. It isn't. Well, fuck it then.

I drove home while banishing all thoughts of Mickey from my head. As the rest of the "band" trickled in and began to warm up on their instruments (Bottles of Köstriker and glasses of Bulleit), I was feeling more like my normally cynical self. We rolled through our set list while sipping and bullsh!tting. Shortly after our rough cover of Common People (NOT the Pulp version), the drummer stood up and shook his legs one at a time.

Drummer: "Fuck. My nuts went numb!"
Me: "Numb junk?!? Sweet! You could give yourself a reverse stranger!"
Banjo/Mandolin player: (fake voice) "Whose grimy balls are these? Whose pipe am I slapping around? Oooh! Dirty boy!"
Bass player: "Wait. Would the reverse stranger be gay?"
Everyone: "Yeah. Totally. Yes."

(five second pause)

Everyone: "I'd still try it once. Yeah. Totally. Yes."



Oh! I think pantyhose also come in "pairs", even when they're hooked together at the crotch. Conjoined twin bank robbers would probably prefer that kind.