They are rusty brown, stiff, not scratchy, and entirely too long. There’s a loop stitched on the left leg for a hammer and some weird-ass pockets behind the right knee for god knows what. Not exactly CFM pants, but I didn’t buy them for that. I wanted functional wear I could splash with paint, bleach or gouge with a box cutter without fear of ruin. With these, the more decrepit the better. It’s not like I wear them for date night, or to pick up men at the hardware store.

They are for scraping, sanding, priming, painting, plumbing, pressure washing, and eating chinese food. So these pants, well, they haven’t won me any brownie points with my Better Half (or just Other Half, depending upon the moment). Meh. Sexuality and functionality aren’t exactly codependent.

Unplanned repairs required renting a truck at the home improvement store. Someone, who shall remain nameless, has reservations about strapping 16 foot pressure treated timbers to the roof of his precious SUV, but maybe they aren’t completely unfounded…Oh, yeah I remember almost being sucked out of the sunroof when we tied a queen sized mattress to the top. MMMM my bad. The Better Half and the Home Improvement store guy start loading our lumber on the truck. This isn’t one of those standard pick-ups you see good old boys pulling into diners. This is a truck on steroids with a wiener shrinking eight foot cargo bed. I know. What were those yahoos thinking. And the clincher? The bed is only certified to haul 3000 lbs. ‘Scuse me, why did you spend extra money on the engine only to restrict hauling capacity for cargo, who are you a a bank?

As they loaded the lumber, I stood off to the side in my rusty brown non-lycra work pants. That is until the Better Half decided I would be of more use in the truck bed stacking boards. Sure…The bumper and tailgate were taller than factory equipment. The bed was not standard equipment, but industrial grade after market reinforced steel. Great for stability, but sucky for catapulting short legs. I stepped onto the bumper effortlessly, but there was no way my spandex free pants would allow me to raise my leg over the tailgate.

Using my hands to walk along the truck bed, I pulled my body over the tailgate until my feet cleared and resumed shifting lumber to the amusement if my better half and the HI loader dude. All behaved as if nothing unusual occurred.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, the Better Half remarked, “I think I like those pants.”