There are some things in this wide world that just don’t sit right with me. One of these things is a person who is wearing pants that are quite clearly too short. Call me judgemental, call me a pedant, call me what you will, but when I see a person with too-short trousers, my mind goes “oh honey no”.
In high school, we had a student teacher, who’s first name was Eric, but I’ve forgotten his last name. Let’s call him Herr Eric. He too was a man of short pants. A man of short, corduroy pants. But Herr Eric was German and young and silly and we forgave him his short pants and the inch of hairy skin because of the sheer comedic value of his existence. Not so for supposedly corporate men that stroll the streets of East Perth. This I cannot abide.
Basically, I am a shortarse, and I recently got some work trousers taken up by a tailor. I quite clearly stated that “I still want to wear these pants with heels, so please don’t take them up too much”, to which the robust tailor nodded sagely and said “of course”, and you know, I believed him. That was until today. I am a serial looker-into-shop-windows-pretending-i’m-looking-inside-but-actually-just-looking-at-my-own-reflection-er, and to pay me back for my cosmic vanity the universe brought to mine eyes a horrible sight. That is to say, I THINK MY PANTS ARE TOO SHORT.
Oh look, I’ve bored you to death. whoops.