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Drainpipes

Yesterday Mr. P and I were going into Boston on the Red Line. The train car was almost empty except for three young men wielding a camcorder affixed to a tripod. One of the young men had his face painted white with flecks of black, like a mime, though he had no other tell-tale mime accouterments. He sat down near us and his friends sat across the aisle and pointed the camera at him. Except for some whispering between the two cameramen, none of them spoke a word.

Normally I don’t stare at people on the T, but the video camera invited me to gawk unabashed at the trio. To my disappointment, the mime did not make any overtly mime-like movements; he sat motionless with his hands on his knees and slowly moved his head from the floor to the ceiling. Once he stood up and I braced myself for action, but he soon sat down and resumed his stoic posture.

The train picked up more passengers as it passed through Cambridge. At Park Street, the mime rose and glided through the doors, followed by his friends and the curious eyes of a dozen spectators. I turned to Mr. P and said what I had been dying to say the whole time: “Did you notice how freaking tight their pants were?”

Yes, to me, the incredibly tight skinny pants made a bigger impression than the white face paint or the camcorder. I couldn’t get over how snug the denim cinched their skinny legs right down to their flat Converse-like sneakers. It seemed a profound generational fashion statement, probably born out of cargo-pant-backlash, that I couldn’t relate to at all. Except when I’m skiing in my sexy pants, I like my pants roomy and grungy. Woe, I’m old.

Posted in Massachusetts.

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