Pants on the Ground

I work for a family business. Sometimes that's a fantastic bonus, and sometimes it's just too much. Ken works for the same business, in a freelance capacity, from a home office. So when things are crazy at work it means:

I work all day. Then I go home, and talk about work with Ken. Then I walk around my home, and there are constant visual reminders of work from Ken's files and equipment lying around. The phone rings. It's my step-dad. First he talks to me about work. Then he talks to Ken about work. Our home is small enough that even though Ken takes the call in the other room, I can still hear every word he's saying (about work) while I'm in the other room trying to watch TV or fold the laundry in peace.

On special occasions I get together with my family, and talk about work with my uncle.

Lately, things at work have been totally off the hook. I've been bellyaching here for weeks about my work stress, and this week is exactly the same. My overall state of mind can be encapsulated by one word:
ZOMG!!!1!!!

*sigh*

I won't bore you with the details. God knows, I have certainly talked enough about work lately (see above). So I'll tell you about something else. All you regular readers know that Ken is a prince who consistently spoils me rotten. Well, I finally got a chance to do something for him.

However hard I've worked lately, he's worked harder. More hours, more responsibility, tighter deadlines. His attache case broke, his clipboard broke, and he hasn't had time to replace them. He's eating so little due to stress and lack of time that he's shed enormous amounts of weight, but he hasn't had time to buy any new clothes. Last weekend his belt was on the last notch, and he was headed directly for a Pants On the Ground situation.

He's not working seven full days per week, but when he does have downtime, he's down. The man is on the couch, in a daze, catching his breath.

I decided to go shopping, to help him out.

Replacing the attache case and clipboard was easy. Then I headed into Old Navy to purchase some pants. That was significantly more complicated. Women's clothing manufacturers generally make pants in one length, (long), and expect you to hem them yourself. Or take them to a tailor. Old Navy's mens' pants come in a variety of waist sizes and a variety of inseam lengths. This creates a whole matrix of size options on a two-dimensional grid.

Because the available sizes can't be arranged in a linear fashion, finding a size is like finding a needle in a haystack. The clerks who stock the shelves can't seem to decide whether they're piling the pants by waist size or inseam. It's kind of random. Either that or the customers have been rearranging the display all week.

I dug through stacks of pants looking for sizes until I was sweating. Then I thought I might have better luck on the lower, less frequently-accessed shelves, so I got down on my knees, with my own super-low skinny jeans threatening to give me a case of plumber's butt, and used both hands to burrow through the piles.

I finally came up for air with two pairs of pants one size smaller and two pairs two sizes smaller than Ken's too-big pants. The colours were based entirely on size availability. (Black and beige - what other men's pants colours are there anyway? I can't think of any.)

I cashed out. I was sweaty, tired, and carrying a lot of bags by then. Yes, I'm small and pathetic. Yes, four pairs of pants and an attache case plus my coat and handbag was a lot to be carrying. But I persevered. I still needed to find a belt.

The belt quest was epic. I went from store to store, checking out belts and asking for help with sizing. Either there was nothing in Ken's size, or the belts were all the end-of-winter clearance super-ugly models (for example, white snakeskin), or they had giant buckles shaped like trucks or hundred-dollar bills, or they cost $150 before tax.

I walked through the whole mall before I finally got to The Bay and located a decent belt for $25. By then I was dehydrated, cranky, and my arms were aching. I stood in line at the cash for what seemed like forever, balancing my shopping bags, while some dude fussed over a return. Then, finally, I paid for the damn belt and got out of there.

I dragged my bags all the way home: a subway ride, and then a 20-minute walk. But it was all worthwhile. It made Ken happy. It also made me happy. He's been wearing his new pants, which look much more flattering than his old ones, which were so big on him they were starting to look like clown pants. He's been using his new bag and clipboard. And it was about time I got a chance to do something for him, for a change.