Last week I had a problem with some pants. These weren’t just any pants; no, these were my first pair of “big boy pants,” the first expensive pair of pants I purchased in an attempt to look like a professional at work. Unfortunately, last week after working out during my lunch break the only thing I would look like while wearing these pants was a damned fool, because somehow between changing out of them and changing back into them, the zipper broke. Several of the teeth on one side of the fly just fell straight off. I stood there in the locker room, in nothing but my underwear, messing with these pants and swearing up a storm like an absolute crazy person all to no avail. So I just put the pants back on, covered my front with my gym bag, and excused myself to run home and change.
Of course, this weekend I was determined to avenge my pants (and perhaps my dignity, or at least a shred of it). I was fully committed to getting these pants replaced, as most clothing should not fall apart after a few months of wearing it, especially considering I wasn’t doing jumping jacks or toe touches while wearing these pants. But I have also had my fair share of unpleasant experiences with sales people, which has forced me to never again buy anything from the following companies: Time Warner, Abercrombie & Fitch, and the Campus Eatery on the corner of 4th and Green. I didn’t want to have to unleash the same loathing on J.Crew as I was forced to feel for a crappy college snack shop.
Luckily, the most wonderful woman I may have ever met helped me. Let’s call her St. Lady at J.Crew, or St. LaJ.C for short. I don’t think she stopped smiling the entire time I was in the store. And she laughed at my story when I told her about my “please don’t look at my crotch” situation at work. St. LaJ.C apologized for what happened and then helped me find a replacement pair, no questions asked. It was like a dream. While I have no evidence of this, I’m fully convinced that St. LaJ.C reads to blind orphans and adopts three-legged dogs, too. I hope that in heaven, there’s a specially little place for people like St. LaJ.C, and I that I’m allowed to visit and get fitted for additional pairs of appropriately tailored dress pants. And maybe another gingham shirt… or five.