Page 1 of My Date With A Pair of Gray Sweatpant

1

In Which We Start at the Thrift Store Thrift Store

January 21, 2025

It’s 100% my fault that I ate the absolutely delicious but horribly greasy pizza at Tino’s. I know better than to eat anything with that much dairy and tomatoes at the same time. Now I’m going to suffer the consequences of eating with my emotions and deal with stomach pain for hours, but it’d been the end of a very long day at the end of a very long week and I deserved a treat… at least that’s what I told myself. My stomach is such an asshole. Why I believe its lies that it needs pizza every single time I’m depressed, I’ll never know.

“Kat, are you up for a trip to the Thrift Store Thrift Store?” my friend, Dale, asks as we leave the run-down pizza place and head out onto the street. The Thrift Store Thrift Store is our stupid inside joke name for our favorite local thrift store. It’s another hole-in-the-wall that doesn’t have a name, just a sign with thewords “Thrift Store” positioned above the entrance, hence Thrift Store Thrift Store. (I warned you, it was stupid).

I am currently living on borrowed time. I’ve got thirty minutes tops before my stomach betrays me, but Dale knows me well. I can’t say no to a trip to the thrift store.

Normal people shop thrift stores for inexpensive clothes or décor, but I shop it to find things to take apart. I love to sew, but buying brand new fabric isn’t always in the budget. Half-priced table cloth and ball gown day is though, and the Thrift Store Thrift Store is looking pretty well-stocked today.

Dale and I walk in from the cold to a blast of hot air perfumed by whatever cleaning solution they use on the floors. Today it’s strong enough that it slightly burns my nose. I should probably worry about inhaling it, but honestly, it’s reassuring that this place gets cleaned at all.

The people living nearby must be working hard on New Year’s resolutions to clear out clutter because today every rack and shelf is stuffed to overflowing. I’ve found so many good pieces in this store. Dale is just getting into drag, but he’s 6’3” and a gym rat, so everything he wears has to be custom made–a hobby I thoroughly enjoy. Nearly half of his stage wardrobe has come from clothes I’ve repurposed from this store.

Dale and I pass the register and the grumpy-looking kid working it barely looks up from picking at his black nail polish. As a bank teller, I always try to smile and say hi to my fellow customer facing workers–it can be a shitty gig, dealing with the public. But this kid looks like he’d rather be dropped into a vat of boiling hot oil than speak to us, and honestly, I can respect that.

We split up immediately. Dale heads straight for the fancy dresses, while I go to the far back, on the hunt for something a little more elusive–the grab bags of misfit clothes. When I first started shopping here, grab bags were pretty common, but I see them less and less these days as everyone’s budgets have gottensmaller. Most of the time, the clothes in the grab bags have large holes, big stains, or offensive sayings printed on them, which is fine for my purposes. I can always cut away what I don’t need or can’t use.

Today, I’m in luck. There are three enormous bags on the rickety table in the back by the bathroom. The bags are filmy and clear-ish, so while you can get some idea of what’s inside, it’s not exactly obvious. The first bag is on the lean side. I skip it immediately. The second seems to be full of t-shirts and jeans. It’s the third one that draws my eye. As I press the bag down against the fabric, I can feel sequins against a bodice. This is my bag. I pick it up and hunt down Dale. He’s got his eye on a beautiful mermaid-style dress, but at seventy-five dollars, it’s a little out of either of our post-holiday budgets.

“C’mon,” I tell him. “This bag has a dress and I’m dying to see if we can use it for the bodice of your outfit for the Valentine’s show.”

He reluctantly puts the dress back and follows me to the counter. Like everything else in the store, the counter is busted. The corner catches the edge of the bag and rips a huge hole right down the middle. Everything pours out onto the counter in a messy pile.

“Fuck,” the kid mutters under his breath and begins folding the clothes into another clean trash bag. I nudge Dale as the dress gets balled up by the kid. It’s beautiful and bright pink, but I can see why it’s in the grab bag–it has a huge hole in the skirt. Still, it’s something we can work with. The kid gets to the last item–a regular pair of men’s gray sweatpants and yelps, dropping them, almost as if they’re hot.

They slide to the floor and land in front of Dale.

“You okay, man?” Dale asks him as he grabs the pants and absently folds them up.

The kid looks down at his hands. “Yeah, sorry, there must be, a sticker on it or something.”

Dale and I exchange glances as the kid rushes through the transaction.

“Enjoy your, uh, pants,” he says cryptically as I take the bag.

“Thanks.” I say back.

The kid doesn’t make eye contact with me and the vibes suddenly feel really off, but so does my stomach at this point. I’m down to eleven of my original thirty minutes. It’s time to get home.

2

In Which We Are Living the Elastic Waist Band Dream

Dale’s apartment is two buildings down from Luigi’s Italian Restaurant, where I rent the tiny attic and pick up as many hours as I can when I’m not working at the bank. We part ways at the corner and I head off for home, every step a reminder that I only have a few more minutes to get close to a bathroom or there will be dire consequences.

There are two ways into my apartment—through the back stairs/fire escape or through the restaurant itself. Having both options is great when I work until close at the restaurant. But running through the foyer past all the adorable young hostesses with a gurgling gut is not high on my list of how I want to interact with my coworkers, so I choose the back stairs. This adds at least another minute to my sprint to the bathroom. I have to circle the building, dodge a few dumpsters in the alley, and take the fire escape stairs up to the door that had probably been a window at some point. I make it in time for my stomach to decide thatmaybeit’s okay. The gurgling stops as I cross thethreshold and I sigh. Why my stomach has to be a drama queen, I’ll never understand.

My apartment isn’t much, but I feel lucky to have a space that I don’t have to share with anyone but Stanley, my asshole cat. It has a bathroom and a small kitchen alcove, but no closets, and aside from the bathroom, no other interior walls. I toss my keys on the counter and leave the bag of clothes by the door while I search out anything and everything I can take for what is probably going to be a long night.

I find a bottle of the pink stuff and gas pain meds behind some cups in the cabinet next to the sink. Should I take them at the same time?—probably not, but it won’t be any worse than what the night has in store for me. I suck them down and look for something warm to wear. It’s about to be laundry day, so of course everything comfortable is in my giant hamper. I search the hanging rack where I keep my clothes and dig through drawers, hoping to find something warm to wear to bed, but can only find an old university sweatshirt—no pants. I’m about to give up when I remember the sweatpants in the bag.

I dig around in the plain trash bag until my hands touch the smooth, cool fabric of the sweats. I pull them out and inspect them, confused why these pants ended up in the grab bag. Every item of clothing in every grab bag I’ve ever bought at Thrift Store Thrift Store always has something wrong with it—a huge tear, missing buttons and zippers, giant stains. But these pants are strangely pristine, as if I pulled them off the shelf brand new. My stomach knots and I decide it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I pull them on. They’re a little too big, but they’ll keep me warm tonight as I lay near death on my bed.

Stanley appears from his favorite hiding place under my bed and goes to meow by his bowl.

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