This struck us as odd for two reasons: first, we had just sat down and no one had the chance to be seriously ogle us. Secondly, the waiter couldn’t remember whether the free drink was for me or Stephen.

“Probably me. I’m more handsome,” I said.

“You wish. I’m more handsome and better dressed.”

“I got a haircut on Friday,” I said with just a smidge of superiority.

He smirked and said, “I showered today.”

Okay, that was a dig.

To our waiter, I said in a particularly icy tone, “We think you should find out who that drink is for.”

He scuttled away.

When he returned with the victorious news that the drink was intended for me, I jabbed a finger at Stephen and snarled, “In your face, Space Coyote.”

The waiter disguised his alarm admirably.

He then informed us that the lady said, “While I would have purchased him a drink anyway, his pants made me want to thank him for his service to this country.”

My camouflage pants.

Crap.

Stephen curled a smile and said, “Service to his country? Huh.”

He grinned hard at me and my seconds-ago triumph tasted like sour beer.

This is the third time someone has mistaken me as former military, and while I have served our government in my contracting work, I don’t think these public expressions of gratitude intended to convey, “Thanks for the scenario-based e-learning.”

Both previous times I felt shitty when this mistake happened and the first time, I corrected the individual. But the second time it happened, an older woman expressed heartfelt gratitude in her strong eyes and it felt wrong to contradict her, like my saying, “I bought these from a surplus store” would disrespect the genuine emotion she had summoned.

“Thank you for your service,” she said and squeezed my arm.

I dipped my head while returning her firm gaze and she turned away abruptly. I wondered if her husband had served.

I passed her beautiful gratitude to six legitimate service men/women before feeling her debt was satisfied.

The pants are the problem. But what can I say? I love them.

I wear them everywhere, I admit it.

They’re incredibly durable, provide more flexibility than jeans, and best of all: two massive pockets on either side for my cell phone, bottle of water, my Kindle, an apple, etc. These pockets are my man purse. I have carried open bottles of beer in those pockets. A half-eaten sandwich. Mint ChapStick.

I recently discovered holes in both front pockets, which seems fair after roughly 2.5 years of borderline daily use. Now that I’ve repaired the pocket holes, you can add “easy to staple” to the pant’s many advantages.

These pants are more famous than I realize.

In late December, while logged into a dating website, a pictureless profile hit on me with a cheesy come-on: We should talk. I have had a crush on you for a long time.

Oh, please. Like I would fall for that.

Given the lack of photo and the ‘big crush’ approach, I assumed it was some programmed adbot. Using a snarky tone, I typed my reply: Oh really? And where have you nurtured this big crush? How do you think you know me?

I received his reply: I work at the pharmacy on 43rd and Chicago. You shop there all the time.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I shop there all the time!

Thing is, I consider going to that particular pharmacy like toddling down into my basement. I mean, it’s only a few blocks away. I’ll drop by if I need milk, photos, or toothpaste. Last minute birthday cards. Black jelly beans at 11pm at night.

And why would you shower to go to your basement? You wouldn’t. How silly. Why comb your hair or brush your teeth? It’s barely even leaving the house. By extension, before entering said pharmacy, why change out of a yellow shirt that has salsa stains on it?

And yes, I well remember the summer night where the friendly glow of the enormous pharmacy sign revealed burgundy salsa drooling down my shirt front. I flicked off a small chunk. (I like the chunky salsa.) Sadly, my only reaction in that moment was to think, “I wonder if I need laundry detergent?”

On the plus side, whoever “Mr. Crush” was from the dating site, he had already seen me at my worst. He knew I was a total slob and inexplicably, he still liked me. And while I have several times made the vow to dress better before leaving the house, I always retract this vow before the words have a chance to dry.

I shower. I really do. I floss; I brush my teeth.

But as the person in charge of laundry for my household of one, I make sure my around-the-house clothes get well used before earning R & R in the clothes hamper.

On this website, Mr. Crush further explained that he would run to the front of the store to make sure he was the cashier who rang me up. He would try to start conversations with me, but I was taciturn. Maybe even growly some nights. He couldn’t figure if I were gay or straight and he would wonder about me as I shuffled out into the parking lot with my black jellybeans.

Maybe you’re thinking of some other customer, I typed. 

He replied with two words:  camo pants.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I often wish I were a classier person.

I sometimes dream of tuxedos and caviar. A few special nights in my life, I have sported a crisp, black tuxedo with shiny lapels and waltzed to live music. It was fun to sparkle that way. But most days, I am a rung or two below business casual and I find I like it down here, the faded t-shirt plane of life.

I decided not to be humiliated about total strangers noticing I wear the same clothes over and over, and decided to keep talking to Mr. Crush.

Really, I bet we all have a pair of camo pants, metaphorically at least, a way that we say to the world, ‘Here I am. Take me as is because I know who I am now. And I like being me.’

Perhaps most people express this self-acceptance in a way other than pants, but if you’re older than 35 and generally like who you are today, that means you’ve recognized a few humbling truths: you aren’t destined to be a United States president. You are capable of hurting people you love. You fucked up your life in some ways big or small. You may not win a Nobel prize for Chemistry. (Though there’s always still hope…).

These hard-won truths are not failures in my eyes; they are milestones of acceptance.

I have zero interest in becoming President of the United States, and while there wasn’t much chance of that happening (lucky for you), having that scratched off the list of crazy possibilities is to accept the world of diminishing possibilities, to age with wisdom that is both comforting and disconcerting. As dreams of fame, fortune, and Nobel prizes slip beyond my grasp, can I accept who I am destined to be in this life?

That’s not to say I’m done improving myself. I see lots of areas where I could grow my compassion, my ability to trust, to love, to risk. And I still dream big: I envision more tuxedo nights in my future (possibly wearing a camo cummerbund and matching bow tie).

It was late December when Mr. Crush contacted me.

We’re dating now.

I swear, it’s the pants.

.

There it is...book cover.

As I approached the front of the store, I saw two parents gently arguing with their kid, maybe four or five years old. He was holding on (both hands) to a fairly unremarkable walking stick, something he had clearly picked up on their stroll to the store.

I should note that it’s a balmy 40 degrees today in Minneapolis, and with the sun grinning hard on everything in December, well, to Minnesotans, this practically counts as a summer day. Driving to the store, I passed hordes of joggers, parents pushing strollers, and hell, I think I saw a woman doing yard work. I do love that Minnesotans see the December sun minus accumulated snow and think, ‘Fuck it: I’m going rollerblading.’

Based on how they were bundled, this family had clearly walked to the store.

Dad tried to coax the stick out of his son’s hands, *promising* that the stick would still standing against the wall brick wall by the bike rack when they came out.

While his son said nothing, the pout and mistrust on his face revealed his faith in Dad’s words.

The stick! This stick is everything!

You’d think I spent 10 minutes watching this drama unfold, but all this occurred during the twenty seconds it took me to approach and pass this family, entering the store. I had the fleeting thought ‘Oh, just let him carry his stick inside’ but when I saw the carefully piled apples, jars precariously arranged, and piled stacks of Christmas candy, I realized the parents’ wisdom.

Stick disaster lurked in every aisle.

As I searched for my salsa, I reflected about the time in my life when a treasure like a good stick was everything.

I once owned a small cedar chest, a cheap souvenir from when we visited Mt. Rushmore on vacation. It contained a feather, two unique pennies, the back of a cub scout pin which had broken off of something meaningful. I think I remember a piece of string that I intended to use for some future invention. Yes, I once owned treasures.

In the grove across from our childhood home, I would find amazing sticks from time to time and always relished my good fortune. Holding it in my young hands, I would marvel at how the stick was so straight, so powerful! Not a single knot or irregularity! Only the luckiest boy in the world could find a stick like that. I could use it for ninja fighting or when I played pirates with some of the other neighborhood kids.

“Where did you get it?” I imagined other kids would say with ill-concealed jealousy.

“Oh this?” I would reply casually, twirling the stick over my head and catching it with ease. “I found it.”

When I left Kowalski’s short moments later, I saw the stick propped against the brick building. Mom and Dad had won. At that moment inside the store, their son was fretting, worried that someone might steal the one treasure he owned in the world, the one possession he could say was truly his.

I got in my car, strapped myself in. Thought of my writing day ahead and reflected how much I love salsa. Wondered if I should have gotten cheese to melt over the chips.

I also thought about how lucky I am to not be shopping for Christmas presents today. I’m remaining in Minnesota for Christmas, the first time ever, and while I will very much miss my Huntley family, I need this break from traveling and gift-buying. My best friend is visiting. We will stay up late gossiping. We will reveal sad stories. Eat amazing food.

My many Minnesota friends are eager to celebrate with Ann, so with these friends we will make fires in my fireplace, laugh until we can’t breathe, and become friends all over again. I will try to force everyone to drink egg nog, though most people I know hate it.

I have treasures in my life.

I hopped out of my car and approached the stick.

I carefully positioned four quarters around the base of the stick, arranged in a pattern so that the boy would know some stranger didn’t accidentally drop these coins. No, the boy is right: the stick is truly blessed.

I remember a time in my life when a quarter meant riches.

And four quarters?

Well, that was like Christmas.

.