Ever since posting Ratty Ole’ Bathrobe, I’ve had queries about the Orange Pants. I’m actually wearing them this very minute. (No monkey hat today.)

Orange Pants by allie taylor

It’s blizzarding now and they’re by far the most comfortable, cozy pants I own, don’t know where I’d be without them. Everyone’s home today, I’m holed up in the bedroom, writing. About orange pants.

Writing, in my room with a view.

So here goes. Years ago in high school, my sweetheart’s wardrobe was not to my liking. While I really liked him, the Chess King purple shirt with the white collar and skinny gray leather tie just had to go. So I devised a scheme, a little game, whereby I’d buy him clothes for birthday and Christmas. I called it Give one, Take one; like pennies at the register. I’d give him something new (conservative), and receive carte blanche to delete an item from his closet. It worked out really well. For me.

Well just a few years down the road, I married that sweetheart. We had a few kids, moved back to the north country. Nearly ten years ago, while out shopping at T. J. Maxx, I came upon a pair of Orange Pants on the clearance rack. They were cotton sweat pants, stretchy and soft, draw string. Straight, like yoga pants.

I wasn’t too crazy about bright orange for pants, and I really didn’t care for the brand, Speedo. Speedo conjures up images I’d just as soon forget. But the pants looked comfortable for cleaning, scrubbing the tub, digging in the garden. And it was the rock bottom $5 price tag that really sucked me in. So I splurged.

I wore them as I thought I would…for cleaning the house, craft projects, making jam, etc. Once in a while I’d wear them for pajamas. Super comfy, they were a real bargain. Then I wore them around the house on occasion, you know, just if I didn’t have to go out. It was a slippery slope, almost an addiction. Because then, every once in a while I started wearing them out for a quick grocery store or ATM run. The orange pants, they just grew on me over the years. They did not, however, grow on my husband Jon, and I had no idea how strong his feelings actually were. He suggested that perhaps they had outgrown their usefulness. His little comments and insinuations revealed the orange pants had become an embarrassment.

This past Christmas Eve, he presented me with a festive Christmas package. “You really need to open this tonight,” he said. So I did.

Inside, a pretty set of pink and blue paisley flannel L.L. Bean pajamas. Thrilled me.

Until he said, “Now can we get rid of the orange pants?”

Moral of the story: Don’t manufacture games you’re not also prepared to lose.

(Surely I’m not the only one with orange pants (or equivalent) in the closet… do tell, inquiring minds want to know.)

Related post: Ratty Ole’ Bathrobe

The post Orange Pants appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

There were other things I planned to write about today. My Ratty Ole Bathrobe just wasn’t in the mix. But like you, I can’t predict what’ll happen in a day. That’s the fun. Like a magnet, my pen’s attracted to the action.

When Jon returned from Nepal last fall (a poet: me!) he brought souvenirs. Good ones too. He gave me the softest blue cashmere scarf you ever saw/felt, and a beautiful pair of lapis earrings. My big guys got fun stuff too, running gloves and t-shirts. The littler boys, hand knit Nepalese ski hats, candy and cute t-shirts. Loved the hats.

Hudson’s.

Charlie’s.

The gifts were a healing salve following the stressful events while he was gone. (If you missed it, catch up here: Near Death By Elephant. )

So last night was super late at our house. We had lots going on MLK day.

No one had school. We saw the new Paddington movie, which we all (especially Hudson) thoroughly enjoyed. Errands to run, an exchange to make, basketball practice. We had a gift card from Christmas, made a day of it and ate out. Over dinner, we remembered Jon and the boys were looking at a home gym on Craig’s List. (They’re wanting to lift.) We texted, just so happened the owner was willing to show it last night. We got home, put the littles to bed, off went Jon and the boys on an hour and fifteen minute drive to check it out. They liked what they saw, then disassembled and loaded it.

Long story short, they didn’t get home ’til after 11. Then it went to the basement, piece by piece.

They were busy, and I stayed up for all the excitement too, sitting here at the kitchen counter photo editing. By the time some of us got to bed, it was nearly 1 a.m. This morning I was really lagged out, got up later than I should’ve. (So enters my Ratty Ole Bathrobe into the tale.) Pulled it on over my pj’s on the way downstairs. Please understand: at one time, this was a lovely robe. (Was being the operative word.) Baby blue flannel, ankle length L.L.Bean bathrobe. Sorry to say, I’ve abused it over the last ten years or so. Wore it nursing babies, cooking breakfast casseroles and coffee cakes. Trust me, it’s stained and ugly now, no prize. And truthfully, it embarrasses my family. (Pssst! Don’t send a new one. I’m rather attached to this old robe. Dear to my heart, comfy, it tells a story… like my stretchy orange pants. But let’s not bunny trail.)

So I wore the bathrobe downstairs, helped the bigger kids get out the door to school. Helped Charlie make his lunch, dress for the cold weather. Thought today would be a great day for him to wear that new Nepalese ski hat. (Had Paddington’s hat on the the brain.) It has cozy, warm earflaps for a frigid day like today. He loved it when he got it, but no interest today. I modeled it for him, hoping he’d change his mind. No dice. He borrowed one of my hats.

Then I got distracted working on the blog. Then mundane things like emptying the dishwasher, wiping down counters, bleaching the sink. Lo and behold, it was 9:35 and I was still at the kitchen counter in my bathrobe. We don’t get much drop-in traffic at the door, I wasn’t concerned. Until the doorbell rang. I froze, immediately recalling the monkey on my head, raccoon eyes from yesterday’s mascara…and that ugly ole’ bathrobe. I ripped off the ski hat, smoothed my hat head and tiptoed to the door, peeking behind the curtain. Thankfully (or not?) it was someone I knew, unexpectedly dropping off a CD for Jon. I cracked the door, precariously positioned myself behind it. I peered ’round, smiling small with unbrushed teeth. He was quick to go. (Wonder why?)

You’d think I’d learn my lesson, but no. I returned to the counter, quickly finishing a few more odds and ends. Ring, ring. I flinched. The doorbell. Deja vu. I peek out. Fedex with a package. Yes, I had to sign for it.

“So sorry you caught me in my bathrobe this morning.” I awkwardly signed and he was on his way.

Things happen to me in threes. You too? I sneeze in threes. So I hightailed it from the kitchen counter for a shower and street clothes, before that doorbell could even think about ringing a third time to deliver someone else to find me in my Ratty Ole Bathrobe.

People ask why unusual things always happen to me. I don’t have an answer. I think stuff happens to everyone. (Maybe I just think about it too long.)

 Related post: Orange Pants

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