spring is for your tight pants

Jordan put on his tight pants today. They’re his accidental version of whatever leftover item girls keep from their high school closet or the bikini that they buy in the winter that’s in style for the summer but only left in the size just one too small so they buy it anyway and pretend to be motivated enough to go to the gym every day. (Lame.) The only times this is successful for women, it is most definitely printed in a magazine. I call Jordan’s little-bit-tight and teensy bikini pants accidental because they’re really his brother’s jeans, and being just the one size small, it was easy to accidentally pick them out of the dryer and pack them for New York. Since we moved here in January, they’ve been on the bottom shelf of a teensy bookcase in our “bedroom.” Jordan stares at them. I dust around them. Our new dog, Rita June, tries to eat them when she wants attention.

Today was the first day of spring in New York, just about an entire month late. Things are blooming for real, everyone is sneezing, dogs are humping each other, and there’s no snow or temperatures below 50 in the forecast for the next 15 days. Not even the low temperatures reach the should-I-bother-with-this-giant-ass-coat 40s.

Never is spring more symbolic than when it’s right after Your First New York Winter and you’re from a place where most people don’t bother with the giant-ass coats ever because they never have owned them anyhow. Winter here is dark and cold and if you happen to commute to Connecticut and back every day for work you leave just after sunrise and arrive home just after sunset and miss the beautiful parts while asleep on the Metro North in some ambiguous commuter town unreachable by the affordable subway system you actually live near. Probably you’ll feel grateful you’re employed but sometimes dream on the train about living in your parents’ basement. Then you’ll feel guilty because you’ve actually got a sweet gig, then jolt awake, hoping you didn’t terrify all the kids coming into the city from Yale (kids?!). If You Give a Recent Southern-State-School Graduate a Metro North Monthly Pass.

So here we are, on this incredibly symbolic spring morning, here around 11a.m. Reese’s Puffs consumed on the couch. Coffee also consumed on the couch, only a teaspoon artfully splashed against the back pillow. Rita between us, crunching carrots, loudly and purposefully. She should never bring carrots to an open-office job in Connecticut. Jordan and I have decided we will go out today and try to finally (if not purchase) at least become inspired by some art at fancy-schmancy and expensive home décor stores in SoHo and proceed to make our walls less tan and more full of screws and nails and art.

Jordan doesn’t want to wear shorts. Jordan is inspired by the warm weather, chirping birds, and humping boy dogs that sent Rita kicking and screaming from the dog park on Thursday. He decides to wear jeans, and picks up the pair from the floor that Rita loves to drag into the bed by the too-large and stretched out belt. He has second thoughts, probably because they are covered with both black and white hair. He goes to the bottom shelf of the teensy bookshelf in the “bedroom” that I have failed to dust. He sneezes. Jordan unfurls the pants that have been folded there since January.

“I’m going to try on my tight pants,” he says.

“Mhm,” I reply, from my spot on the couch. If I move, Rita will abandon her purposeful crunching and propel another teaspoon of coffee out of my mug and onto the green IKEA couch.

We wait.

Jordan emerges from the “bedroom,” pants zipped all the way, acting like Will Ferrell but appearing to be a totally normal human in totally normal not-white-but-dark-wash-denim jeans.

“I’ve got my tights pants, I’ve got my tight pants on,” he sings.

Rita abandons the carrots. The couch absorbs another teaspoon of coffee. (We will learn, eventually.)

“Here’s to spring,” I say.

Here are some photos of sweet Rita June, whose exercise requirements slipped Jordan into the size just one too small, sans Crisco.

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