Green Drawstring Pants

I have a dear friend who is an extremely proper English gentleman whom it is one of my delights to torment by sharing with him in excruciating precision the more tedious details of my life’s somewhat impressively boring daily activities.

Photo by Andreas Schmidt on Unsplash

One crisp early fall when he was visiting on a business trip, I went to Venice Beach for the afternoon, where, among other exploits of dashing daredevilry, I entered a store on the boardwalk and treated myself to the purchase of a pair of green cotton pants with a drawstring waist for lounging around the house on leisurely evenings.

“I have had a very exciting time,” I announced to him on my return. “I bought myself a pair of bottle green drawstring pants.”

My friend went pale.

“Oh, God,” he murmured faintly, pouring himself a restorative glass of wine.

Oh, good, I thought. I’m onto a good one here.

“They’re really nice,” I said. “They’re high quality organic cotton, which my skin always thanks me for. They’re lovely and loose so I can move around comfortably in them. And I always find a drawstring waist is so forgiving, don’t you? Do you want to see them?”

“Under no circumstances,” said my friend.

This was getting better.

“Are you sure?” I said. “I always say you can’t have enough drawstring pants, and I’ve been wanting a green pair for some time so I’m very pleased with these. They had two shades in the store, in fact – there was a nice light apple green, which I was quite tempted by because it seemed sort of cheerful …”

“Far too much information,” said my friend.

“… but in the end I chose the pair in the darker shade because the summer’s more or less over and darker colors are so much cozier when it gets chilly. It’s funny because they’re both made of exactly the same cotton, but the bottle green just feels warmer than the apple somehow.”

“I do not wish to hear more,” said my friend.

“Then I won’t say another word,” I said. “But do you want to see them anyway? If you want, I can take them out of the bag and show them to you in respectfully monastic silence.”

“Good lord no,” said my friend.

“It’s up to you,” I said. “If you choose to miss out on the experience, I suppose you’ll just have to live with your loss. I’ll take them to my room, then, and admire them all on my own. If you change your mind, you can always let me know.”

“Do not await me with bated breath,” said my friend.

My friend is a good and thoughtful guest, and that evening he was taking Mr. Los Angeles and me to dinner to thank us for our hospitality.

“I guess we’ll head out around 7.00,” I said. I looked down at my sandy, salty, Venice Beachy attire. “I’ll have a shower and change before we go,” I said.

“I am certain society would applaud the effort,” said my friend.

“All right then,” I said. “I’ll go and get myself ready now.”

My friend took a fortifying sip of his wine.

“Would you do me a favor?” he said.

“By all means,” I said.

“When you at last emerge in your evening finery,” he said, “would you please refrain from sharing with me further particulars of your bottle green cotton drawstring underwear?”

I’d forgotten that in Britain, the garments Americans call “pants” are called “trousers,” while the British understanding of “pants” is of an altogether more intimate garment.

Since I have been pals with both my friend and his glamorous and redoubtable wife for decades, and since Mr. Los Angeles and I are godparents to the oldest of their three children, the misunderstanding was reassuringly less risqué than it might otherwise have been.

But I’m still wondering just how he thought the drawstring part worked.