Pants

There is much to envy about my life. Tops among my good fortunes are my TWO studly mail carriers.

Jimmy is our Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday guy. He has hair down to his shoulder blades and went to high school with half of the neighborhood. He also has a spit cup attached to his dashboard with duct tape and is missing his left pointer finger. I desperately want to ask Jimmy about his missing finger, but my husband says that it's more important that we get all of our mail.

Our Monday/Wednesday/Friday mailman is named Dave. Compared to the competition, Dave is a supermodel. From what I can tell, Dave has all of his original teeth and two distinct eyebrows. He also wears short shorts year round. Asking Dave why he wears shorts in subfreezing temperatures is also high on my list of things to do this winter. In exchange for two boxes of Girl Scout cookies, however, I promised my husband that I would not engage Dave in direct conversation about his Daisy Dukes for at least three months.

Usually I am good for my word, but some circumstances make promises impossible to keep. This afternoon, I watched Dave run his mail truck into the snow embankment next to our mailbox for the second time in three weeks. After a few minutes of spinning his wheels, screaming obscenities into the sky, and kicking his hubcaps, Dave marched up my driveway and pounded on my front door.

"Can I borrow your snow shovel again?" he asked through gritted teeth.

By the time Dave finished digging himself out of the knee-high snow bank, his bare thighs were purple.

"Don't do it," begged Cortlen. I promised my son $5 if he gets me through March.

"Can I get you anything else?" I asked Dave when he returned the shovel. Dave was half way back to his truck before I added, "Maybe some pants?"

Without turning around, Dave snorted and shouted back, "You're one to talk!"



For the record, pajama bottoms are pants. In some countries. And on most college campuses.