Play It As It Lays, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disguise | @MDWorld

September 1, 2016 Victor El-Khouri 0 Comments

There are all kinds of reasons why I might die alone.

(For one thing, we all do.  But that’s a different philosophical discussion.)

We could discuss, with painful honesty, all the reasons this might happen.  In this column, rather than examining the effects of Third Wave Feminism on baby boomers, or how the health care system fails men in our culture, or the problems with modern romance or the effects of mobility on the family, I’m going to talk about what’s important.

What’s important is me.  And I’m impossible.

Case in point:  I’m going away on business this weekend.  It’s work, but I don’t have to put on business attire.  I can wear jeans and t-shirts.  I can wear comfortable shoes.  I’ve been to this event before, and I know what is expected.

Does this make packing any easier?  Of course not.

As I’ve kvetched here before, it’s been ridiculously hot this summer.  Happily, the heat broke and we should have temperatures that allow human life to survive and flourish for the next several days, at least.  We’re getting some much-needed rain in the Northeast.  I have a plethora of umbrellas, at least one of which has pictures of cats on it.

Am I happy about this?  What do you think?

This particular issue, about which I’ve been obsessing for days, involves pants.  As in, I will have to wear them.  In the summer heat, I tend to wear large dresses that provide shade, or gauzy pants with drawstrings.  None of these garments stick to my sweaty body.  Are they the most attractive options?  Probably not, but I don’t care.  When it’s hot, my comfort is more important than your scenery.

This weekend, however, I will want to wear jeans.  And jeans have waistbands and zippers instead of elastic or drawstrings.  I haven’t worn a pair of real pants since June.

What if they don’t fit?

A normal, rational person would have tried on her pants before she started packing.  Not me. I hold out hope that if I am only sincere enough, the Great Pumpkin will appear in my pumpkin patch, not in my mid-section (or, for that matter, the White House).

If my favorite jeans don’t fit, I’ll have to wear my fat pants.  That might be too much to stand.  I might as well pin a scarlet letter (I guess “F” for fat) on my shirt.

Will anyone at the show care what pants I wear?  Will anyone be able to tell the difference between my favorite pants and my fat pants?  Will I even think about any of this after I get dressed and leave the house?

Of course not.

Until that moment, however, I will be frothing with anxiety about what to pack, what to wear, what I might forget at the last minute (because, apparently, in my heart of hearts I believe there are no stores outside of New York that might sell toothpaste or shampoo), whether or not to bring my iPad because if I do, it will be heavy and if I don’t, I’ll have time to watch a movie, and when, precisely, I should say goodbye to the cat and head to the train station.

No sane person wants to live with a person like this.

Eh, all my friends are insane anyway.  Forget I said anything.

Media Goddess Martha Thomases knows her title is from a famous book, but also a wonderful song (and album) by Patti Scialfa.