Some of you may remember the shopping spree I went on earlier this year, in an update to delame my wardrobe? Well, on this shopping spree, it happens that I found
the perfect pair of black pants, made of just the right fabric to repel dog and cat hair, and with just the right leg flare, so as not to look too librarianesque.
And, they are a size six, which is most definitely
not my size. But if I were to die in a horrible work-related incident, when they came to take my body away, they would find that I was wearing size six pants, and probably would have that figure engraved on my tombstone.
But these pants, I tell you, were sent here by Satan himself. Oh, yes, they're alluring, as many of the devil's creations are. And I totally do look foxy in them. But they deceive you with their good looks and pet-repellant surfaces into a false sense of security, because these pants want to kill you.
I say this based on the fact that in the two times I have worn them, I have nearly fallen to my death seven times, due to snagging my heel in the descreet cuffs that ring the bottom of the legs. Today alone, I did it in the bathroom at home while applying make-up (leading to horribly misplaced pink eyeshadow), in the bathroom at work, and right in front of my co-worker's desk, causing her to announce loudly, "My God, are you okay? What's wrong with you?"
It's the pants, Ann. The pants want me dead.
So be warned-- if I turn up the victim of what appears to be a routine slip and fall, smeared with eyeshadow and missing a shoe heel, you'll know who did it. Because I'm not going to stop wearing the pants. No. They make my ass look too fine. But please, make sure whoever finds me there checks the label in front of everyone before carting me off to my final resting place.
