Adam Wears the Pants (the one with the story of the lost couch)

Adam’s pants have been a problem since the outset.

It started before we were ever married.  I frequently tell the story that just weeks before we tied the knot, we started cleaning up his house.   And by cleaning up, I mean totally overhauling.  Anyway, Adam had a “clean clothes room.”  This meant anytime he did laundry, instead of hanging up, folding, or even shoving freshly-dried apparel into the dresser drawer, he would throw his clothes into the spare room.  Hence, the Clean Clothes Room.  But the point is this…we were going through the Clean Clothes Room and sorting the sea of garments into piles: Keep  -  Donate  -  Too Worn to Donate.  I picked up a pair of boxers (which, just by the way, never landed in the donate pile… we’re not freaks or anything).  The boxers were so worn-through, that it gave threadbare a whole new meaning.  You could see through the thin veil of what remained: the Clean Clothes doorway, through the kitchen, and all the way into the living room.  Seriously, THIN!  Then, about half way through the sorting one of us picked up a white undershirt, unearthing the rounded arm of a love seat. 

I THOUGHT I THREW THAT COUCH AWAY!!!

So…yeah.  He lost a couch . . . in a small, three-bedroom house . . . under what he maintains were clean clothes. 

That’s how the pants debacle started.

But lack of pants has also been a problem.

One night in 2012, Adam got out of bed to go check a noise. When he came back to bed, I heard him stop in the hallway.  Moments later I heard him walking again.  … Stopped, again …  He did this several times until he finally made his way back to the room.  I asked why he had stopped.  He said I kept hearing a weird noise…like a swishing sound…then I realized it was just my thighs rubbing together. 

But then, there was the time I washed his iPod mini.  In my defense, cargo shorts have a bunch of baggy pockets.  That and the fact that he’s a grown man who should clean out his own pockets…

And then there was the time I washed his pricy Bluetooth earpiece in his jeans pocket.  We replaced it with a new one.  Also pricey.  And the new one got washed too.  Not once but twice.

Or the one time there was a gel pen that, of course, got washed with his brand new khaki work pants.

And then there are the paint markers…  Yeah, P.A.I.N.T.  … He uses these at work, but they get clipped in a pocket and never get taken out until the wash cycle is finished.

And then there was Friday night.  Somehow, we aren’t sure…gum got washed with our nicer work and church clothes.  GUM.  And clearly, it was more than just one piece.  So instead of a date night or a regular run-of-the-mill kind of evening with the kids, we picked gum off of clothes for the greater portion of two hours.  TWO HOURS, y’all.   At one point, I was sure I was getting new cardigans out of the deal.  We picked, peeled, and goo-gone’d patches of minty fresh gum while the kids ran amok.  And then we re-washed the clothes.  But when they came out, there was still more GUM.  So I cleaned the washing machine, picked more gum off more clothes until my fingertips hurt, and then I re-washed again.  And yep, you guessed it… MORE GUM.  I’m a little less than thrilled - I’m tempted to blame the washing machine cleaning tablet company but it’s more likely operator error. 

33 years on this earth and I suppose it’s time I start checking pockets. 

From the Fullness of His Grace,

Lacey