Note No. 73
June 22, 2010
I am back in Mexico. And nothing is really that different. A few best friends no longer live here but otherwise, it’s the same blazing sun, the same infuriating dust, the same stunning water, the same crazy amazing sunsets and the same bewildering schizophrenia that accompanies being surrounded by such paradoxes all day and vacillating from love to hate for the place, love to hate and ultimately, back to love again.
Okay. Well, I guess there is one huge difference from last time I was here. I am no longer wearing those godawful, skanky, piece of crap, musta-been-drunk-when-I-bought-‘em, coming-apart-at-the-seams, can’t-even-pass-‘em-on-to-a-friend, lyin’, cheatin’, good-for-nuthin’ black pants. You know the ones.
They’re still here alright. I left them on a curb somewhere in May and last I heard, a girl had actually picked them up and was wearing them around but I have yet to see them for myself and that’s just as well.
I know. I seemed so confident in my choice but I guess even the best-made articles of clothing don’t work out—not that these were especially well-made. I mean, I had been warned that this particular model had been recalled a few times and quality control was suspect. But I guess a girl always hopes that she is somehow different, that for whatever reason, her hips will have better chemistry with the material than any other girl’s hips in the world.
So much for wishing. It soon became clear that I was no different than all the others who had reported poor performance and that there was no future with these pants.
Now, in some cases, when something like this happens only a short time into a wardrobe purchase, it’s not too late to find a solution between the company and the customer so that both parties end up satisfied. But when you have already cut the tags off something and it’s clear the item has been put through the wash a few times and well, the contours of your body can be seen in certain parts of the trousers, for example, you are kind of stuck holding them. And it’s your responsibility to figure out what to do with them.
In this case, they were not even worth modifying into cut-offs; they were that bad. And if they were that bad, I was certainly not going to offer them to a girlfriend to try on. I was not even going to offer them to the local good deeds group that collects old clothes to raise money for projects to help the island.
No, sir. Those pants had no other destiny sewn into them, other than being bound straight for the garbage. But of course, I had last-minute guilt associated with not even trying to recycle something, so I set them BESIDE the trash can, because when you do that with something here, someone inevitably walks by and sees it and realizes they have a use for it and snags it before the collection truck makes its early morning rounds the next day.
And so, that’s exactly what happened, reminding me yet again that no matter where you are, no matter what the context might be, it forever stands true that one (wo)man’s trash is another (wo)man’s treasure.
It’s a good thing, really.