It Seams to Me

Saturday was the Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators Regional Conference at the Sheraton Hotel in Cleveland. The night before the conference I slept three hours. In the morning I; woke up, took a shower, grabbed coffee, ironed the clothes I had picked out at one in the morning the night before and headed out the door. I had decided to wear my favorite black pants, a pair of Dockers made with a material that doesn't require ironing but breathes with an elastic waistband that has been with me through thick and thin. I've had these pants since I was a bartender/server at a restaurant in Little Italy, in Cleveland, Ohio five years ago. I typically get a sudden surge of creativity or a mad desire to oil paint whenever I wear these pants, so it only seemed fitting that they would be the pants I'd wear to a conference pertaining to writing and illustration.

When I arrived at the conference I immediately marked my territory on the illustrators' table to display my easel and illustrations. I felt more confident than I did the year before thanks to a stronger portfolio and by having postcards to present that my mother in-law, Dolli, had made for me. Then, I sat down at a table in front of the stage where the speakers would give their presentations. I drank coffee and ate a light breakfast while I chit-chatted with an elderly woman to my left and a male illustrator to my right. We made light conversation and I excused myself frequently to check on my work and to get a feel for the crowd's reaction to my work. I sat back down at my table and waited patiently for the conference to begin.

As the first presenter began his speech I looked down at my crotch and noticed, to my absolute horror, that my underwear was showing through the giant split in my pants. Panic flooded my brain and I immediately began to rummage through the back logs of Mentos commercials stored somewhere deep in the library of pop culture commercials lodged in my cerebral cortex. Somehow, ripping my pants into short shorts didn't seem to be an acceptable option for me. Then, I remembered I had an overnight bag in the trunk of my car in case my wife and I ever stayed over somewhere and needed hygiene products or pajamas.

I quietly grabbed my jacket and held it in front of my nether regions nonchalantly exiting the room. I walked to my car trying to come up with options. What would my wife, who is an ex-wedding coordinator do? I have no time to buy a needle and thread, I don't have access to a stapler and I have no duct tape. Maybe I could buy a pair of pants off of a guest at the hotel I thought. Excuse me sir, can I buy or borrow a pair of your pants? You see, I'm here for this conference and if you'll just take a look at my crotch you can see that I've managed to split my pants... I couldn't see this as being my first option, but one that I wasn't afraid to try. When I opened the bag in my trunk all I saw was a pair of pajama bottoms. This won't work even if they are artists. This is unacceptable. As I looked some more I found a pair of nylon cargo pants. This would have to do. I changed in the mensroom away from the conference.

When I walked back into the conference room nobody seemed to have noticed my wardrobe change and I wasn't willing or ready to announce my dilemma to the crowd. I'll let them think I sharted and had to change my clothes, what choice do I have? I scanned the room hoping to find someone giving me a satisfying nod of approval for my coolness. I had become a freshmaker.