A couple days ago, the button fell off my pants and into the toilet. It had been fraying for awhile, but in true Cindy fashion, I had ignored it. The pants were a pair of my dress-up pants, which means I automatically hated them because anyone who knows me knows that I prefer to be rocking a t-shirt and jeans or pajama pants instead of dress-up anything. That’s how I roll. But the place where I work won’t let me wear pajamas daily (can’t imagine why), so I have three pairs of dress-up pants so I look at least slightly more presentable than usual when I’m at work. But that button; it just popped right off and sped right into the bowl of the toilet before I could even think about what was happening.
Typically, this would be what we call an ’emergency situation’ in our house. And it would usually call for Greg’s assistance and possible saving of the day. When there’s a giant spider to kill who do I call? Greg. He knows if I say, “Um honey, there’s a code (fill in color here because I just pick a random color every time) upstairs in the bathroom. Can you deal with it?” it means I need him to grab a kleenex, butterfly net or whatever and head for the stairs (yeah, I’m a girl, shut up). But maybe it’s because I’ve become used to finding baby poop on my hands after changing diapers–I was only slightly freaked out at the process of having to stick my hand in the toilet.
Thankfully, I hadn’t done my business yet or I probably would have just flushed the button down the toilet and paid to have a plumber fix the problem.
After I retrieved the button (by the way, toilet water is really, really COLD), I soaped, Cloroxed and burned my hand with acid (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating) to clean it because ew. I had stuck my hand in a toilet. And that’s all kinds of gross.
Fast-forward to yesterday morning when I was getting ready for work–running late as usual–and I realized that all three pairs of my dress-up pants were in the dryer.
I raced for the dryer, expecting to throw on my black pants, but they were still too damp. Ditto for my khakis. But the brown ones with the missing button, oh, they were just perfect. Nice and dry and warm and well, maybe I could make them work for one day because I’m running late and it’s only one day, right?
Oh, I am such a silly girl.
On went to the pants with no button and Greg found a small safety pin that I foolishly thought would maybe help keep the top of my pants together for the whole day. Yep, that was my quick solution to the problem. I was sure the safety pin would solve everything and I could hop in the mommy-mobile, take Zoey to my mom’s house for the day and head off to work.
And then I bent over to put on my shoes.
The safety pin popped open and my pants started falling down on my hips. Nothing says “Hey Fatty” like busting your pants open first thing in the morning. Panic set in because I was supposed to have left the house five minutes before to get Zoey to my mom’s and to get to work on time. So I raced upstairs to our bedroom and came up with the only backup plan I had that didn’t involve wearing a skirt and (bleh!) panty hose–I threw on an old pair of pants that are about five sizes too big and probably made me look like an MC Hammer backup dancer.
And then I spent the rest of the day praying my pants wouldn’t fall around my ankles because no one wants to see that.
Thankfully, I got home after work without incident. And as soon as I stepped in the door, I changed into comfy pants because, like I said, that’s how I roll.
So my goal for this weekend is two-fold: first, I’m going to attempt to sew the button back on my pants. This is huge because I haven’t attempted such a feat since Mrs. Newman’s Home Ec class in eighth grade, where I made poodle and cat stuffed animals. The poodle came out okay, except it’s head sort of lolls to one side (not enough stuffing, I think), but the cat’s tail hangs on only by a few threads–which is a true testament to my sewing capabilities. So I’m not entirely convinced I can pull this button thing off. Which leads me to my second goal–going to J.C. Pennys and buying a new pair of pants (which means probably wandering over to the baby section and seeing if there’s anything Zoey just HAS TO HAVE. But don’t tell Greg. He thinks I’m crazy with the baby clothes).
One way or another, I’ll have solved the dress pants problem by the time Monday rolls around. And (hopefully) that will mean not having to wear a dress any time soon. A dress and pearls might be fine for June Cleaver, but I’m not like that. I’m a comfy pants kind of girl. And if my employers ever decide to start pajama day once a week, I’ll be the happiest girl in the whole wide world.