Nice Pants

Back in the 1990's, when America was still a great nation with a citizenry that could still get out and buy such textile luxuries, Dockers launched an advertising campaign titled "Nice Pants". You remember it, don't ya? The hunky model dressed in the great utility chino suitable for work, lounge, and golf would strut around a city, likely San Fransisco, and fend off the advances of women admiring his trousers. "Nice pants," they'd all say as they sinfully devoured his lower half with their eyes. Indeed. If it were really San Fransisco, he'd have been prancing around the Tenderloin district averting the advances from Hugo the Gay Cuban. Wherever the locale, America needs more nice pants. Specifically, Kate needs some nice new pants. Ski pants, that is. Waterproof, warm, and preferrably a fashionable green were her requisites, and I tried to deliver. I figured it was better that I do it, lest she turn to Hugo.

Dear lord, did I try. I went to The Bent Gate, where all I found was a pair of shoes for a certain someone. That certain someone was me, and it got me no closer to my goal of finding Kate a birthday present. I went to Neptune Mountaineering. There, focusing on the color of the pants in question, I found nothing for her OR me. Same for BC Surf & Sport, Boulder Ski Deals, and Echelon Sports. No luck at Sports Authority, The Ride Room at Loveland Basin, Patagonia.com, or Patagonia's outlet in Dillon, Montana. I looked at a bike shop that didn't sell skis, and in Longmont, happily known as Boulder's ghetto, I found a bike shop that did sell skis, though no ski pants. My quest culminated in total failure at a shop called Sniagrab, an old Gart Sport's spin off, and last stand for acres of unwanted fabric.

A salesman over at an adjacent ski shop told me he thought he'd seen some green pants hanging on their racks. I walked across the parking lot and wandered into the warehouse-come-ski shop. The walls were eye-scaldingly white, no music played as a distraction, and in front of me were racks upon racks of ski wear. Coats, pants, helmets, boots, binding, skis and snowboards. This is where odd sizes, wild colors, and fur lined fashion has come to die. I immediately wandered to the section labeled as "Women's small," and assumed I'd soon find the answer to all my shopping woes. I searched for longer than expected. Sure, I saw fiery red, bleach white, and plaids from any number of companies. But no green. There was a green, orange, and brown pattern that resembled a highly organized game of chutes and ladders, but no simple kelley green. There's not even lime.

But then, I see it. In a different section, this one labeled "Youth Large." Deep, dark green. Perfect. I call my sister and ask her if it might fly. She tries to talk me out of it, asking what sizes Sniagrab has in the youth aisles.
"Only a medium and a large."
She tells me that only an extra large will do, a very polite way of telling me that my idea smells of stupidity and desperation. Which it does.

I bought them anyway. I'd talked myself into the large pair after holding them up in silhouette against a woman's small and deciding that it was pretty close. That's just the kind of gift every girl wants for their big day, right? "Not quite right, but pretty close. I love you, what's for dinner?"

Earlier in the day, I had been by my dad's house, where I picked up the container of ski accoutrements that Kate had been storing there. Feeling sly from my bait and switch, I stashed the pants in the box knowing that she'll look inside when I bring it into the house, instinctively checking to see that I've collected all of her things.

I walked in the door upon my arrival at home with the big box in my hands, and then went back to my car for other things to bring inside. The box sat idly by the door through the unloading process, and I asked her what we're possibly going to do with it in our cramped home. Then, through dinner, I asked if she'll find a place for it. When we're finally both in bed, the box hadn't moved, and I'm not sure if I'm mad because the living room is cluttered, or if it's due to the surprise left hidden.
"Just go open the damn ski box!" I nearly shouted, wringing any romance of the moment directly into the toilet.

When Kate came back into the bedroom, she's was smiling and putting the pieces together. Indeed, that's where I'd been during all of my secret missions in the evenings. Buying boys pants. She tried to slip them on, but they were meant for a human even smaller than my girlfriend.
"They're so green, but I don't really care if they're that color. We should go together and look. Maybe I should get some white ones. That'd go better with my jacket, anyway."

So now it's back to Sniagrab for a return, and maybe another swim through the endless rows of hanging pants, swinging silently on the racks. If we don't find anything there, I know Boulder Ski Deals has quite a selection. Just no green.