Sunday, December 13, 2009

All My Life I've Resisted (Except for the Period Around 1978)...What a Shame!

I know my parents stuck me in corduroy pants as a kid. I'm sure I've got the pictures to prove it. Corduroy pants and chunky plaid shirts with shoulder-smothering collars cut from larger pieces of fabric than the rest of the shirt combined.

The shirts were a bad idea. And so, I thought, were the pants.

I was so wrong.

I don't know why, but I've been avoiding corduroy for as long as I can remember. I'm not sure what my beef was. I guess I just thought it wasn't me. I wasn't going to be one of those guys (the guys that wore corduroy), though I don't know why I thought those guys were people not to be. None of it really makes sense.

But the real story starts about a week and a half ago. I'd been in desperate need for new pants for a very long time, and Kohl's was holding an "everything in the store at least 50% off, post-Black Friday" sale. I didn't find much I liked. But there were cords, and they were cheap. Cheap enough to take a risk. Believe me though, I dithered. Especially since I was alone, and had no one to talk me into things.

But they looked good on me (relative to other things I've worn in the past, not to the population as a whole.) I was sure of it. I unsheathed my credit card and brought the corduroys home.

And I freaking love them! I don't know if I've ever worn a more comfortable pair of pants. Maybe it's just this brand, or maybe it's every corduroy garment ever fabricated. I don't experience with the fabric is so limited! How can I possibly make up for the 30 misspent years I was mindlessly loafing around in denim and plain cotton blends? I may have to commission an entire wardrobe of the purest corduroy, underwear and shoes included. I'll purchase corduroy sheets, corduroy automobile seat covers and durable corduroy-based floor and wall coverings.

I may have to hop a plane to some third-world country with limited medical oversight and convince doctors to surgically remove my skin and all of my organs of dubious importance and replace them with graft-grade corduroy fabric spun from the effluent of my own lab-cultured stem cells.

It's that comfortable. I wouldn't kid you. I want my brain to be replaced with a sinewy mass of cultured corduroy so I never have to entertain another uncomfortable thought. That just might make up for the harsh treatment I've unwittingly subjected myself to all these years.

Don't be like me. If you're still young, go out and get yourself some corduroy before it's too late. Don't wait until the sandpaper you're currently wrapping yourself in burns away the upper layers of your epidermis, destroying the precious nerve cells nature intended to experience corduroy's comforting caress. Once they're gone, all the corduroy in the world won't save you. Trust me. I almost missed my chance.

But I've found my redemption...praise the Cord!

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