Dear Dirty Pants,
First of all, I’m sorry to refer to you as “dirty pants”. It’s not meant to be an insult, just an observation. Because – well – because you’re dirty.
About ten years ago, I acquired you from my sister-in-law, the nurse. I was headed on my very first missions trip, and I needed some clothes that could get dirty. Someone had a genius idea to wear hospital scrubs. Scrubs are comfy, durable, and lightweight. Plus they would shield my legs from that hot Mexico sun. We would be mixing concrete and laying interlock brick and painting, and I needed some pants that I could destroy and not feel bad about it.
And destroy you, I did. You’re covered in grime. Dust from the concrete we mixed and poured, oil based paint from the fruit and veggie storage room we painted. Dirt from the interlock bricks we put down. Whitish-yellow paint from the school, drywall mud from the apartments. And of course that reddish brown roof sealant paint from the week I spent hours upon hours painting hot roofs. I think that’s what really did you in.
Me and Dirty Pants on a roof. Added fashion bonus: My dad’s bucket hat.
Of course you know all of this because you were there.
As I was packing for my eighth Mexico trip, I pulled you down from your spot on the top shelf of my closet. I unfolded you, chuckled at how dirty you are, and stretched your waist. All of your elastic crackled and stayed stretched out. You’re old. You’re worn out. You’re officially destroyed. And you’ve done your job well.
I know you’re just a pair of pants, and you probably can’t read, but a little part of me is sad that I’m not taking your billowy, unflattering self with me. You’ve been with me for 70+ days in Mexico. You’ve let me work hard. You’ve kept me cool. You’ve been alongside me for some of the biggest, most adventurous and exciting (and humbling and difficult and painful and healing and stretching) moments of my life. And for that, I thank you. Thanks for getting dirty. Thanks for letting me destroy you.
Thanks for the all memories, Dirty Pants.
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