My favorite pants

Let's get a few things straight. I'm a runner, I'm Dutch, and I'm cheap. I'm not saying that any of these three things are related, I'm just putting my cards out on the table for those of you who don't know me personally. So make fun of me all you want, but no cracks about how Dutch people are cheap, or I'll make fun of the fact that you use FAR too much hair care product. Uh, yes you do, admit it. Don't try to hide.

So anyway, I have to tell you about one of my favorite experiences, merely because it involves two of the three factors that I've listed above - that I'm a runner and I'm cheap. The fact that I'm Dutch is inconsequential in this particular story. Don't fret, surely it will come up in future blogs. Be patient. So one particular Saturday, I was to attend a housewarming party for a friend. Said friend (let's call him Pierre) wanted to make the party special, so he hosted a retro "prom" theme. Cool enough, I thought. Luckily for me, my favorite store is the Salvation Army (I told you I was cheap - I'm not kidding here people), so I had plenty of butterfly collar retro shirts for the party. Unfortunately, when perusing my closet - horror of all horrors - I had not one pair of polyester pants. Eeek.

Thus begins my trek. Since it was a nice winter day out (read: above 20 degrees), I decided to run to the nearest Salvation Army to buy a pair of pants. And I mean that. I literally ran there. It's only three miles from my house. It's my favorite Salvation Army in town, and they always have the best selection. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but just try to look past the fact that most of the clothing comes from the closets of people who have recently passed away. Yes, I'm wearing a dead man's shirt. Get over it.

So I make it to the Salvation Army (admittedly a bit sweaty and smelly), and there's nothing. The party is hours away, and I have no polyester pants. I was getting so desperate that I would have offered to by the pants off the old man working the counter, if only they were polyester. Faced with this excrutiatingly polyester-free dilemma, I decide to run another two miles to yet another Salvation Army. I arrive and frantically start searching the men's slacks section. As if a gift from God himself, there they are. The most beautiful burnt sienna polyester pants you've ever seen. They matched my pre-selected shirt and jacket perfectly. Well, I couldn't try them on (as by now I had run 6 miles and was far too sweaty) so I trumphantly bring them to the counter.

As if by another gift from God, the woman at the counter rings them up, and says, "That will be twenty five cents". WHAT? HUH? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? TWENTY FIVE CENT PANTS? Apparently it was "yellow dot day", where everything with a yellow dot was only a quarter. I was happier than a hippie at a deadhead concert. I proudly slide my quarter over the counter to her and run my six miles home, with little time to spare.

I get home and promptly jump into a muchly needed shower, then begin to get dressed for the party. I didn't care that I didn't have enough time to properly wash them, and I didn't care that they were about four inches too short in the inseam. They fit, they matched, and they were polyester. So, as I'm just about on my way out the door, I go to put my keys in my pocket, and as I reach in... Fasten your seatbelts... Get ready... THERE WAS A DIME IN THE POCKET! It was like a rebate from beyond the grave. A dead man left me a dime. BETTER YET, I WAS WEARING FIFTEEN CENT PANTS! I was in heaven. Pure heaven.

I'm so proud of my fifteen cent pants. They're so hideous that I never wear them, but I tell everyone I know about them. Oh yeah, Pierre's party was fun, too. The end.