I don’t know how I get so lucky, but every pair of pants I own, EVERY SINGLE PAIR, is magical.
I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you, it’s not related to how good my tuckus looks. (But thank you)
Unfortunately, my pants, more specifically my pockets, use their powers for evil rather than good.
A harmless tube of Chapstick fresh from the pharmacy. I apply it to my lips regularly to avoid damage from the sun, wind, and cold and it often does its job satisfactorily. But my magical pockets can have none of that. They seek to end the Chapstick’s reign once and for all. And so, though delicately and comfortably placed in my front pocket, when next removed for use, it appears that a steam locomotive thought it could – and it did – mash the mushy part of the Chapstick into the top of the tube, rendering it unsalvageable by most accounts, i.e. mine, and eventually causing my lips to chap and crack.
Similarly, my pockets like to make phone calls to girls I have either dated or had (notice: past tense) hoped to date. While my cell phone is in my pocket, the keypad will magically come unlocked, and dial the number of someone who will, of course, answer just as I break into the chorus of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” They will hang up, but not after hearing me belt out the high notes and make percussion noises with my mouth.
Keys in my magical pockets? More like insanely difficult, metal puzzle I must solve in order to unlock the door at work. I’ll never know how the key gets through the key ring in my pocket, but not in my hand.
Earbuds in my magical pockets? More like knot of rubber coated cord that would give even Maniac MaGee a run for his money.
Candy cane? Crushed. Peppermint powder breeds with lint and will still be found years later.
Phone number from a pretty girl? Lost. (Theoretically. Never had a chance to test this one.)
It’s these damn magical pockets with their evil powers. We trust them with our keys, phones, money and mints and at any moment they could ruin it all.
And sometimes, they do.