I was searching through my closet, in need of a nice pair of pants to wear to a wedding, when I discovered khakis that I'd never noticed before. They rested on a hanger, 18 inches away from the nearest item on the rack. They were hemmed and neatly pressed.
"Where did these khakis come from?" I asked myself. "No time for questions now," I replied. I was in a hurry. I removed them from the hanger and tried them on. They were a relaxed fit. They were clean. And they matched my dress shirt. I immediately ended my search for wedding pants. I had a winner.
I left my home and settled into my car for the 45-minute drive to the wedding. As I navigated the roads, I again wondered how I came into possession of the comfortable khakis I was wearing. Were they a hand-me-down? Not likely. They appeared to be new. Maybe I'd purchased them, stored them and neglected them until they'd fallen out of memory? Hmmm...not impossible, but there were no tags on the inside. "Maybe these are magical pants," I laughed to myself.
The pants had the last laugh, though. They were magical.
The pants were magical in the sense that they contained a power I could not explain -- a power that revealed itself to me at the wedding reception, as I was exchanging pleasantries with a fellow guest at my table. As he explained to me how he knew the bride and groom, I spilled a little bit of water from my glass on my khakis. "Dang it!" I muttered. I assumed the water had left a spot on my pants.
Only, it hadn't. I looked down and noticed a small pool of water simply hovering on top of my khakis. My tablemate continued the conversation -- I don't think he saw the spill -- but I stopped paying attention to him. I just stared at the water on my pants for another 30 seconds. I then swatted it away, as if it were an annoying insect. It landed on the floor and dissipated, without ever having left a mark on my pants.
Perhaps it was a fluke. As my new friend chattered on, I slowly lifted my glass and "accidentally" leaked some more water on my pants. Same result. "Amazing," I thought.
"Excuse me for just one moment," I said to my tablemate. I walked toward the bartender. I had to run additional tests on my pants. "Can I have a Pepsi, please?"
I returned to my table with cola in hand. My conversation partner had wandered off, which is just as well, because I'd found a new way to keep myself occupied. I splashed some of the Pepsi on my pants. It streamed down my leg, like a river of soda. Remarkable.
Following another trip to the bartender, I poured ginger ale. No stains on the pants. Dr. Pepper. Still clean. The purple stuff. Spotless.
Off in the distance, a woman clinked her glass. It was the maid of honor; she had a toast to make. Immediately, I raised my glass of apple cider (I don't drink alcohol). I did not hear a word she said. My mind was fixated solely on dousing my pants with cider. As soon as she ended her spiel, I overturned the glass. Discreetly, of course. My pants were still dry!
The night was truly one to remember.
Several of my friends have informed me that when I eventually have my own wedding, I won't have time to eat food or drink soda or cider because I will be too busy entertaining my guests. But I vow to make sure that doesn't happen. I will eat, drink and be merry. Check that: I will eat, spill drinks and be merry.
