The Misadventures of the Falling Pants

The suits pressed and ready, and you’re raring to go. You’re sure that you’re going to make heads turn, after all the suit’s magenta, you really can’t go wrong when you buy/wear something from Zara (no, no, this isn’t a promotion). So you sure are going to stand out in a sea of black, blue and greys (hopefully not like a sore thumb).

Your suits packed and folded cause there’s a ballroom session to attend, well make that two sessions. So after two hours of Latin ballroom, you’re left with a sweaty and puzzled self, especially when you do two dance forms in two hours (escaping doing the third), which couldn’t be more different from each other. 

So you eagerly rush to the washroom to get ready. The small space and the lack of fan or a mirror do you no favour. There’s no latch on the door, so you’ve to change as quickly as possible, as there’s a single washroom for both sex. You need to towel your sweaty self down in record down, lest a poor unfortunate auntie/lady/ person should stumble upon your semi-naked self, leaving you red in the face (this coming from boy who’s Instagram feed is filled with more than half pics of him flaunting his non-existent body, according to my friends).

You quickly try to get dress and realise that all the quickness has caused you sweat more, the one thing you hoped to avoid. You dab yourself with your towel and you put on your pant. But then something doesn’t quite feel right. Your pant is a bit too loose. But then you have a belt and hopefully all should should hold up, literally. Damn you weight loss you were supposed to help look better not skinnier. And why didn’t you try the pant once before you sent it out for ironing. And then you try to buckle your belt (hoping it ain’t going to be a loose ride). But then there aren’t sufficient holes to hold up the pant on your waist, and keeps falling just below it (and thankfully not off it).

There’s nothing much you can do now other than go down, put on your shoes, take your coat and bag and leave, praying desperately that the pants holds. So you keep pulling your pants up, every time it threatens to go too far south, like a child clutching at their loose garment ( flitting for someone who’s a big kiddo).

You manage to reach the hall unscathed, without any untoward incident. Your pant is safely on your waist only (where it’s hanging for its dear life and on a Hail Mary) and not lying anywhere else. You tuck in your shirt, wear your coat and check yourself if you’re presentable. But one thing you can’t help is pulling that pant up.

Now instead of being seated in one place, the dancing keedas takes over you and you find yourself on the dance floor, tucking your shirt and constantly pulling up that pants, shamelessly not bothering if people are watching. Somehow you really don’t bother about it too much and continue to dance (cause you’ve already warmed up and you’re a ball of energy, jumping around like a jack-in-the-box, like a big kiddo (which is what people who know you, think you are) one that will never grow up).

The weather gods aren’t too kind to you. The weather is hot and humid, and there’s no way you can rid yourself of your coat without exposing your drooping pants. And to add to it you’re dripping, your shirt literally soaking in sweat which is dripping into your pant. Much to your horror, dismay, embarrassment, a patch is formed around your waist and crotch. So it seems you’ve peed in your pants without you actually peeing in your pants ( as if you don’t have control over your bowel movements).

So you’re left red-faced, redder than your magenta suit. You wouldn’t know where the suit would end and you began. Well ok your skin tone doesn’t really allow you to go red or seem red or show red. Now you have all the more reason of keeping that coat on no matter how hot and humid the night may get. You avoid making eye contact lest you come across any awkward, sniggering glances. But no matter what, you continue to dance, like a pacca pavwala.

So by the end of the night you are all dripping wet, as opposed to soaking wet. You try to hide your lower half should your awkward embarrassment be captured on camera. You finally get home and you try to change as quick as possible, muttering a silent thanks for making it through the night, through the misadventures of the falling pants.