Recently, my family had the dubious privilege of being present at the opening of The Great Rift. Not the one in Africa, or even the one in Cardiff, but the one that appeared in the seat of Clementine’s pants.
I call it “great” not because of the size of the tear (although, stretching nearly from cheek to cheek as it did, it was quite substantial), but because, unfortunately, the pants in question happened to be Clementine’s only pair.
Well, not really. Not by adult standards. But then again, adult standards are so lax that we actually believe that just because someone has so many pairs of pants that the only way they can shut their dresser drawer is by scooping out the top layers and slinging them into the dirty clothes hamper they have pants to wear. Sure, by those standards she still had plenty of pants. But by Clementine standards it was her very last pair.
Now, before you go taking her side and assuming that this is because her other pants are so hideous that even Jan Brady would look askance at them, know this: all those pants were picked out by Clementine herself; at one point, each pair was not only wanted but positively begged for. Somehow though, one by one, they each fell out of favor–some of them even making this descent during their brief trip from shopping bag to drawer. The problem, it seems, is that no matter how good a pair of pants might look in the store–no matter how thoroughly they destroy their dressing room competition–once they get home they still have to face their ultimate rival: The Chosen Ones.
The Chosen Ones are those pants that get called up for duty morning after morning; in the singles’ bars of the pants world, they are what’s known as a sure thing. Facing that kind of competition, can you really blame the others for bowing out (or, more precisely, “bowing into the dirty clothes hamper,”)? Of course not: they know they don’t stand a chance against a rival like that–not even when that rival has a tear in the seat big enough to drive a–well, drive a butt through. And this even though they are, to all outside observers, completely identical to The Chosen Ones in every quality. (And, when it comes to their butt-hiding qualities, even a little bit superior.)
Of course, identical to an adult and identical to a child are two completely different things: to a discerning child, no two pairs of pants are ever the same. For one thing, just like with certain valuable antiques, a truly loved pair of pants will have acquired an ingrained layer of filth (the “patina”) that makes them unique. Then again, even without this feature, there are still other highly mysterious factors that determine which pair will be The Chosen Ones. (One theory is that–like stallions fighting for dominance of the herd–the pants every so often must fight their way to supremacy, with the victor throwing itself spent and torn on the floor besides the child in question’s bed. This also explains why the dresser drawers are so often messed up.)
Which brings us back to the problem of The Great Rift: since the pair in question had been vanquished not by another champion, but by an outside force (me, throwing them away), suddenly the line of succession was no longer secure. How would the new champion be chosen? Would there be a lottery? Feats of strength (with special emphasis being placed on “butt strength)?
Although I was tempted to stay up that night and learn the inner secrets of the pants tribe (and be present when the puffs of indigo smoke signaled a new Chosen Pair), in the end I decided that–as with many aspects of child-raising–there are just some things it is better not to know.