We took Abe for a walk in a nearby park yesterday. As we strolled, Greg started to snicker.
“This is a new record,” he said, trying to be elusive about what the record was.
“Yes, I know,” I said, my wife sensory panel kicking into gear. “How many days in a row have you worn those jeans now?”
“Seven!” Greg said, with the beaming pride of a little kid who had just hit seven homerooms or kicked seven soccer goals. “I’m going to have to wash them to shrink them back down.” He tugged at the sagging waist.
Greg did not clarify whether this record is an all-time record or just a record while married. I’m pretty sure that sometime in college — post-mom, pre-wife — he wore a pair of pants eight or nine days in a row. I can appreciate the comfort of a broken-in pair of jeans as much as the next person, but I usually start to nag him about changing jeans by the time he hits day four. If I had a bigger washing machine, I would just pick Greg up and toss him in with the jeans still on … it would be easier than trying to get them off his body.
Greg owns thirteen pairs of pants. Really, I just counted. And I’m excluding pants worn for dress, exercise, and sleeping. But he will only wear the one pair he leaves rumpled on the floor of our bedroom. As far as I can tell, this behavior is perfectly acceptable among male members of society. After all, Greg has had his job almost a year now, and they haven’t fired him, so they must not find him too offensive. And I change pants all the time, but no one will give me a job, so who am I to pick on Greg?
Maybe I should try to see this from a man’s perspective. The longer he wears those pants, the less laundry I do. Carry on, Greg, carry on.