Anti Pants Day.

To save an extra ten minutes on my commute, I ride my bike to the blue line every day. A couple weeks ago I was biking to work and my dress pants got caught in my bike chain. I parked the bike and starting pulling. Since they were relatively cheap and only about 50% flattering, I just ripped them out of the gear and ruined the hem. I pedaled on without a twinge of remorse or a sincere apology to the bike.

On Tuesday I was riding home from the train. It was a lovely day, the sky was blue, and I was done with work! Yippee! So I was happy. About two blocks into my seven block ride, my bike chain saw the window of opportunity it had been waiting for and chomped down on my dress pants again. This was a different pair, and because the too-short hem I requested from mom looks very Audrey Hepburn when I wear a button down shirt and flats, I decided I WAS NOT LOSING THOSE PANTS.



So I pulled over, just like before. Knowing that the materials was stronger (uh, more polyester, I believe) I started yanking on my pants with my right hand while still sitting on the bike. The 70 other blue ride riders walking down Kedzie were kind enough to completely ignore the grown woman trying to wrench her office attire free of a blue beach cruiser. Thanks, comrades. I got off the bike and tried pulling on my pants with both hands, but my right ankle was not going to budge, so I had no other choice than to accept defeat. For another five blocks I sat on my bike, casually dangling my right leg next to the chain guard, while leaning and scooting my unhelpful bike and trying my best to "get on my good foot."



All the way home and only one teenage girl laughed at me! Because of the pants, I wasn't able to do large pushes with my left foot (push...wheeeee! push...wheeee!). Instead I had to repeatedly tap the ground with my big toe (put put put put put put STREEETTCH put put put put). While puttering along I started using my award winning (not really) problem solving skills on the next dilemma at hand. The only way to save the pants would be to remove myself from them, i.e., be pantless. Here was my train of thought:

1. I'll have to take the pants off in the apartment
2. How do I get the bike into the apartment? I'll just carry it in, of course!
3. YEAH! I'll use the back porch, because it's so big and wide and I won't have too much trouble. Then I'll walk into the house and take off my pants. I envision myself effortlessly carrying the large heavy bike up three flights of stairs, entering the kitchen and removing the pants calmly without cause for celebration.
4. Ohhhhhh. Wait. I don't have a back door key, and Tim isn't home. I can't go in the back porch.
5. Okay, I'll just go in the front door, carry the bike upstairs, and take of my paints! YES!

By the time I got to my front door, I realized that carrying a bike that is glued to your inner right thigh is easier than it sounds. What I actually had to do was open a heavy glass door, unlock another heavy glass door within two feet of the first door, prop both doors open with my body, and turn the bike 180 degrees so I was lifting it through the entry way backwards, which meant the handlebars were swerving in every direction possible. After about ten minutes of holding both doors open, tugging at bike tires, and dodging stair way rails, I had only succeeded in the getting the bike through the front door, but not up the three flights of carpeted stairs to my apartment. Here was my next train of thought.

1. I cannot lift this bike up the stairs without damaging any more walls, banisters, or doors. And my arms are tired.
2. Currently, there are only three apartments between me and my apartment.
3. I have never seen anyone in the halls when I have come home from work.
4. Really? Never?
5. Yes, never.
6. I am wearing oddly thick nylons under my pants, and boy shorts underwears, which provide more coverage than a swimmun suit bottom.
7. My coat is long enough to cover my lady parts.

I think you can see where this is going. In a blur of triumph, I removed my shoes and pants in the entryway and raced up the stairs in my pantyhose and modest coat coverage. I did a little dance before getting all grown up and putting on pants again, like, heh, you thought you had me, bike, but I perservered. Sucker.

I was so excited about defeating the bike that I later put on my running pants inside out and didn't notice till I ran past a large window on North Avenue and saw the large white tag contrasted against the seat of my black stretchy pants.

Damn you pants! Why don't you like Tuesdays? Oh, and it took Tim 30 seconds to remove the pants from the bike, along with a 2"x2" scrap of fabric from the pants that lost the first battle of the chain guard. BUT WE WON THE WAR!