If the Pants Fit ...

I’m not sure how many of you are aware of this, but the whole reason Briton and I even got married is because of an evening spent laughing about pants. It turns out pants are a theme in our relationship. Last weekend's trip provided two points of pants-provoked laughter.

We were sitting in the shade of the entry arch, feasting our eyes on the Taj Mahal. Whilst gazing, a warm kersplat landed on my pants leg. The warm kersplat of pigeon poop. It was warm and runny and green with white. After hollering a bit, I looked for something to wipe it off with. Before Briton could pull out some tissue, a nearby older lady resourcefully picked an old business card off the ground and, without saying a word, started scraping off the pigeon poop (and then asked for some money for her services). I spent the next little bit trying to keep the wet spot from sticking to my skin. It eventually dried, which was good since I only had that one pair of pants for the duration of the trip.

Those pants hadn’t seen the end of their abuse yet, however. The next day in Old Delhi, I maneuvered my behind onto the bicycle rickshaw and inadvertently snagged it on the sharp metal siding. A perfect L-shaped tear, the size of my hand, gave gaping view to my underclothes. I quickly sat down. Too late, though, as the second bicycle driver who was carting around Praveen, saw it happen and with a twinkle in his eye and unable to suppress a smile, said, “Oh. So sorry.” The guy pedaling our bicycle rickshaw said it was the first time that had happened to any of his customers, if you can believe it. We went back to the car where I changed into the only other thing we had that fit: my pink pajama bottoms. I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the capital of India in ballet-dancer-print pj's, much to Briton’s admiration and amusement. In the pic below, note not only the pj's, but also the baggie containing the prized saffron.