u235

It's easy to hate airports. The stench of sweat, jet exhaust, and sickly sweet or desperately salty odors of cheap, awful food. It's more or less the same for the people, tired, wired or otherwise jaded, yapping on phones or giving you a hostile glare for taking the only remaining seat (which, as chance would have it, happened to be next to *them*). The only real comfort is the fact that there's lots of people to watch. And when you get tired or run out of pulp to read at least there's something to gawk at. Lots to gawk at actually.

"No, I don't want you to be working 40 hours a week.."
"But Mom!"

I was privy to this conversation that was going on right behind my head. Mom and her two sons, one clearly in his later teens and one in his earlier looked like direct relatives of the great Ozzy himself. One of the boys sported altogether the worst pair of pants I'd ever seen.

On the previous flight I'd been gifted with a full view of patterned boxers when the baggy-jeans wearing kid behind me bent over to fiddle with his backpack. Full indeed. His pants were a good foot lower than his hips, leading me to wonder just how he'd make it down the isle without getting tangled. However, maybe just because the whole-baggy look is so old I wasn't nearly as piqued as later when I encountered this woman and her progeny.

In this case the pants were low - way low - but insanely tight. True, the kid had no leg muscles to speak of, giving the Parisian models a run for their emaciated aura. But with the "waist" and belt effectively cinching his legs together right below the crotch I had to believe that some mystical force propelled him forward when clearly no normal motion could occur.

Not baggy, but too low to walk? Not tight around the ass but tourniquet-ed about the top of the thighs? Damn but those really are some bad pants...