My pants smell. My pants are making my nose stuffy. I’m allergic to my pants.
I am wearing the pants I wore to dinner Friday night. By accident. You see, I rotate my clothes and get a few wearings before I wash them. Unless I’ve stained them or done something to get them unduly dirty, I usually hang my clothes and let them air out for a day or two. Gravity takes care of most wrinkles. I usually have two to three full outfits in rotation at any one time, and I toss the oldest shirt in the hamper when I get out a clean shirt to wear. But today when I dressed, I forgot to sniff test my jeans.
These jeans I’m wearing are the ones I was wearing when we went to the restaraunt Friday night. There were seven of us and exactly three tables in the non-smoking section that would accommodate our party. So we had to wait. I tried not to get annoyed when I noticed that two of the large tables were occupied with parties of four or less. I failed. Then I tried not to get more annoyed when the small parties at the big table took their time, talking over their food. I succeeded there — I like to talk at dinner too. But we had two old people and two little people standing for twenty minutes in a crowded foyer and they were getting testy, so we all relucantly sought out the big table in the smoking section so we could get on with it.
You can easily spot us non-smokers who got forced to sit in the smoking section. We’re the ones who’ve asked to keep our big menus and are fanning the smoke away from our faces. We’re the ones who look over immediately as someone lights up, calculating air currents and wind speed, assessing ventilation opportunities. We’re the ones that requested that the ceiling fans be turned on.
So we ate in the smoking section. Now, three days later, my pants still stink. Incredible. I swear that one of the several hundred toxic ingredients of cigarrette tobacco must be a chemical equvalent of velcro.