Sexy Pants

I am 67 years old so I guess I’m a senior citizen. Normally, people don’t pay that much attention to me on the street. Often, when I’m in stores, teenagers walk straight into me because at 67 I’m not on their radar. Other people don’t see me either – not a whole lot of eye contact goes on in public. I am invisible in the way that we are all invisible to each other. Men rarely glance at me, no matter how young or old they are. All of this is not true, however, when I wear a certain pair of tights, the black ones with the big roses wandering all over them. I call them my sexy pants. When I wear these pants, everything changes.

They’re just tights like the rest of the tights I wear, only these have magical powers. They attract attention like crazy. Whenever I wear these tights in public I give off pheromones. Suddenly people who would never notice me notice me.

Take yesterday, for example. It was a nice day out, which is rare in the San Francisco neighborhood where I live, and I decided to get a lot of my errands done. I walked all the way to the library, which took at least half an hour, and this is where the first two incidents occurred. Browsing around, I picked a few books off the shelves, and when a middle-aged man was blocking my way, I said a polite Excuse me. “Oh, of course,” he said with more enthusiasm than what one would expect, and I immediately thought Pants. It’s the pants… A few minutes later, when I sat down to look over the books I’d chosen as possible reads, an elderly man walked over to talk to me, feeling the need to show me the David Baldacci novel he was planning on reading. He had this big smile on his face, this boyish look on his face, like he was falling in love.

It continued. All the way from the young bus driver who broke into a smile when I got on the bus, to the gentleman who got up and chivalrously offered me his seat even though there were several vacant ones, to the male customer at Walgreen’s who wanted my opinion on which dish detergent he should buy. Believe me, none of this ever happens to me when I wear different pants.

On my way home I was walking down the block when a strange thing happened. I looked up to see a young woman advancing down the street toward me. She was maybe twenty-five or thirty and had a large, open face and a ready smile, and she was wearing a pair of black tights very similar to mine. Similar except that instead of roses hers had some crazy design on them. As we passed each other we both glanced at each other’s pants.

“Hey, I like your tights,” she said. I smiled, telling her that I had been about to say the same thing to her.

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