A Tale of Two Inseams

By looking at me and the number of t-shirts I own, you know I don't really care how I dress or look. To a certain extent, I carry that attitude over to my work attire. I'm not the kind of guy who gets anything custom made, or even the kind of guy who shops at any sort of store that could be considered fancy (unless you consider TJ Maxx or Marshall's fancy, in which case I'd like to meet you and help you get back on your feet).

That said, every now and then, I realize that a pair of pants is, perhaps, getting too faded or to tattered to wear to work. Then six or seven months later, I do something about it, which usually entails buying another pair of pants.

My inseam is 31 inches, which means I am pretty much screwed when it comes to buying pants because finding pants with 31-inch inseams is about as common as finding an Irishman who has pleasant things to say about the English. I am forced to choose between two unpleasant alternatives: (1) go with a 30-inch inseam, which gives the appearance that I am concerned about flood waters; or (2) go with a 32-inch inseam, which gives the appearance that I am a child trying to wear grown-up pants. I have multiple pairs of each. (Yes, I realize I can just buy pants with 32-inch inseams and then have them tailored, but I am very lazy.)

Sunday, Jester and I were at Target. She was off looking at power tools, so I headed to the menswear section to see if there were any t-shirts of interest. There weren't, but I did see some khakis that were on sale. There are a couple pairs of khakis that I currently own (and regularly wear to work) that are well past their primes. They definitely fall into the "flood" category. Jester cracks wise about it. I simply don't give a shit.

So anyway, I picked up a couple pairs of khakis with 32-inch inseams. I didn't try them on because I figured they had the same measurements as about half of my pants, which fit me just fine (aside from being too long). I hate ironing and I'm always playing with beets, so I was about as excited as one can be about buying khaki pants from Target because the pants were billed as both stain resistant and wrinkle resistant.

Yesterday morning, I tore the tags off one of the pairs of pants, expecting that they would fit me and knowing they would perfectly complement the wrinkled brown polo shirt I grabbed from my closet floor. Admittedly, my ass is a little bulbous, but when I pulled these pants up, something wasn't right. The length was actually okay and the waist was fine, but the crotch -- good God, the crotch -- was all sorts of wrong. It was WAY too tight. It was uncomfortable. I thought to myself, "Okay, well maybe the pants will stretch out a little. Let's see what the mirror has to say." I walked over to the mirror and, I kid you not, I could see a near-perfect outline of my junk -- balls, shaft, all of it. This wasn't something that could be adjusted either. Lord knows I tried. No matter what I did, it looked like I was on my way to fix the cable in a '70s porn. If I had worn these to work, I'm pretty sure I would have been fired on the spot for creating a hostile work environment for everyone (myself included). I would post a picture, but I don't want to risk getting GMYH blocked by your place of employment. Plus, I don't take pictures of my dong.

Defeated, I took the pants off and put on a pair that had been on its way to retirement. If there's anything to be learned here -- aside from the fact that I am a poorly dressed sloth with the ass of a gorilla -- it's that, unless you are a eunuch, make sure you try on khaki pants at Target.