When I was 20, I lived in central Washington state for a summer. I lived a block away from work, shared an office with a boy who drove a Ducati and had a roommate who hated any television shows that didn't star The Fonz. I had a lot of new and exciting experiences that summer. A group of friends and I went to Canada, where I was propositioned by a married couple (the husband claimed to be an award winning poet, he recited a poem about my beauty while his wife rubbed my thigh...it was weird), I caught a fly ball at a baseball game, I almost fell off of the previously mentioned Ducati. Probably the best part about the summer, however, was that I finally got to go whitewater rafting.
A bunch of people from work arranged a trip to the Wenatchee river. The only helpful suggestion that I received was "don't wear cotton." This was problematic. All my clothes were cotton. I caught a ride to the mall on the opposite side of town and began a quest for a synthetic fiber. Apparently, there wasn't any. At least not any inexpensive synthetic clothes. I ended up with a pair of XXL track pants that snapped all the way up the side. The pants were big enough for three of me but they were very warm and very comfortable. I decided that they'd be perfect for a rafting trip.
Note: I loved those pants. I loved them so much. I would wear them around the house, unsnapped most of the way up my leg. They swished around me like magnificent harem pants of comfort. I probably could have strapped a shotgun to one leg and a German Shepard to the other and both would have gone unnoticed. That's how big the pants were. Sadly, in the 7 or 8 moves since then, I've lost them.
On the day of the trip, I poured myself a large cup of coffee. My roommate peeked around the corner of her door frame to stare disapprovingly at me. She hated the smell of coffee and I required it to operate like a functioning human being. This did not lead to a happy living situation. When she saw that I was still drinking the devil-brew, she walked out and stared across the kitchen counter at me, the better to fixate her disapproval.
Her eyes drifted toward my pants. "What on Earth are you wearing?"
"Pants?"
"Are you sure?"
I could see her confusion. The pants were rolled about 5 times around my waist, making it look like I had a hidden innertube awaiting deployment in case of emergency. The legs were so wide that I probably could have worn each individually as a skirt. In fact, it looked a lot like a wide skirt anyway. My roommate sniffed and retreated to her room. I chugged the coffee and raced to the van.
The river was about 2 hours away. While waiting for the coffee to kick in, the relaxing roll of the van and the soothing comfort of my giant pants lulled me to sleep. When I woke up, I was drooling on the man beside me. I wiped off his shoulder and swiveled my head. We appeared to be driving through Bavaria.
It turns out that we were driving through Leavenworth, a town that (in the 1960's) decided it wanted to be Bavaria and so...made itself into Bavaria. I didn't know that towns did that...just decided to be other places spontaneously. Now I live in constant fear that I'll wake up and my town will have decided to become Transylvania. Not that there's anything wrong with Transylvania, it's just unexpected in California.
A little after Leavenworth, we arrived at the river. Everyone was given a life vest and a helmet. I was told that a novice like myself should be in the back of the boat. The guy who said it sounded really authoritative, so I plopped myself in the back of the boat and we launched. It was a gorgeous day and the ride was really exciting. At least, it looked really exciting. The front half of the boat was bouncing all around and getting pummeled by waves. I wasn't being touched at all.
I seethed with jealousy at the poor middle-aged woman who was getting hit in the face by fire-hose pressured waves. Those waves should have been hitting my face! I was ready! I wanted an adventure! She snorted water out of her nose and gasped.
I offered to trade seats, which she gracefully accepted. She probably thought I was insane. In a mild spot on the water, we switched. Now I was in the front, ready to go! I crouched, hunkered by the side of the boat, paddle held at the ready. We hit the rapids. The raft careened about like a roller coaster. I hollered a battle cry, or an ohmigodthisisawesome cry, or possibly an Imgonnadieeeeeeeee cry. Either way, there was yelling. The frigid water beaded on my giant pants, the mist frosted my face.
About midway through this stretch of rapids, a mere 5 minutes after I'd switched seats with the nice woman, the boat slid, nose-first, into a hole (Wikipedia describes this kind of hole as " where the river flows back on itself--perhaps back under the drop--often with fearful results for those caught in its grasp." It's like a giant pothole in the water). The nose of the boat stuck in the hole and the back flipped up. Our boat folded in half, smacking the people behind me on top of me and smushing me directly into the yellow rubber beneath me. The people in the back of the boat, including the nice lady, were launched from it like it was a catapult. They went flying over our heads and into the rampaging river.
We managed to catch up to them and I dragged the previous occupier of my seat into the boat guiltily. She glared at me, like I'd known that was coming and had set her up. I let her have her old seat back, out of guilt. I watched, from the serene back of the boat, as waves battered her for the rest of the trip.
At the end of the trip, my giant pants were soaked all the way through--probably weighing about 20lbs. I slipped out of them and attempted to wring them dry. I formed a small lake with the runoff water. The pants still weighed a ton. I rolled them up and stuffed them in a grocery bag. As I shuffled back to the car, in my short-shorts and sopping wet bag, the nice lady gave me a death glare.
We arrived home, after the long trip, and I shuffled up to my apartment. My roommate was watching Happy Days.
"That was awesome!" I said.
She turned up the volume.
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4 Response to
Wow! Good story. Pants make it better. In other news, whaaat about the married couple, got to hear more about that, lol
you have great stories. It truly makes me sad that you don't have those pants any more. They sound amazing.
They were the kind of pants that dreams are made of. I have considered buying other grossly missized pants to try to get that feeling back.
They *were* amazing pants. Slit up the side to show some leg.
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