His Pants

Half-marathon man got married this weekend, in another state, to another very talented librarian. Of course he wanted to look his best for the ceremony, so he chose his wardrobe with exquisite care. A jacket, a tie, a nice shirt, a handsome belt, and of course, a most favorite pair of French-cuffed beige pants. And once he had chosen these pants, after he had culled them from the herd of pants in his possession, what did he do? He left them behind.
Two days before the wedding he calls me. "Dan!" he says, "I left my pants in my house, the pants I want to wear for the wedding. Can you go to my house, get my pants, and give them to a family courier who will bring them on a plane to me in time for the ceremony?"
Of course my friend had to say nothing more. With the help of another friend, I sped to his house and searched his closet and bedroom for the aforementioned pants. But where could they be? Beige pants? Anybody see a nice pair of beige pants?
After a prolonged search (and several pieces of taffy), I called half-marathon man from his kitchen and sadly informed him that try as I (and our other friend) might, we simply could not find his pants. I could hear the disappointment in the librarian's voice. My heart sank. I had failed, and now my friend would have to enter married life half naked, bereft of the pants he evidently treasures with a fondness he normally reserves for first editions.
"Don't worry," he told me. He sounded utterly dejected. "I bought some pants, extra pants. They are the most expensive pants I have ever bought in my life. I was hoping to return them. I was hoping never to wear them. But that's okay." He sighed. "I'll live."
Was that a bit of static I heard on the line, or could it have been a sniffly sob? I'll never know for sure. But the new pants went on, the wedding came off, and the two super librarians are now bound at the seams.
And speaking of seams . . . the story of the pants . . . it gets worse.
"You know, Dan," said Half-marathon man, as we sat eating beige egg rolls, he safely back in South Dakota, "my pants, my beige pants, the ones with the French cuffs, they were in my closet, on a green hanger, the whole time. I found them the instant I got home."
My jaw dropped. My eggroll dropped. "You're kidding!"
"Nope. They were there."
"And they're beige? You're sure? You're sure they're beige?"
"Yep," he said, "they're beige."
Now, here is a picture of Half-marathon man's "beige" pants. And here's "beige". I ask you, are those pants olive, or what?