Drew vs. Shrinkage. Shrinkage 1, Drew 0.

Out of all the mortal enemies I could have come encounter with today (hunger; sleep-deprivation; Aquaman), I've found myself grappling with one I'd never had expected. That's right, this dastardly villain is none other than... shrinkage!

But the best kind of shrinkage, I assure you. Perhaps you've once had that perfect, absolutely pristine, makes you wanna make that kitschy French kissing motion when you put them on kind of pants. Flawless they seem, as they cling onto your hips and rest perfectly above your LA lights sneakers. We all know these pants: they're the things that throwaway daydreams are made of.

Which, of course, brings me face to face with my new mortal enemy, which is quickly making all of those other mortal enemies obsolete (take that equivalence tests!). Without a doubt, shrinkage has thrown a shrunken little wrench into my day. But if you truly want to feel my pain (and loss of circulation), I suppose it would help to get to know my fallen partner is this tragic laundry novella. Well at least what they used to be...

I once owned a pair of brown cotton pants with vertical tan pinstripes. Doesn't sound entirely too flashy, eh? I'll agree that they're not the most spectacular trousers on paper, but then again, neither was Casablanca (well, ya know, if Casablanca was a pair of pants, instead of a movie). Perhaps what you need to understand is the way they fit me. Ooh how they fit me! When I slipped on my brown pinstripe pants, I was no longer Drew Stewart: struggling and sluggish student. No, when I fell into my glorious garments, I became, Drew Stewart: flashy and as equally panashy student. It was a marriage made in heaven and purchased at Kohl's. Well, that is, while it lasted.

Truthfully, I feared the lurking threat of shrinkage all along. My father tried to warn me, bickering, "Well... they kinda fit now, but what's gonna happen when you wash them?" I shrugged arrogantly, dismissing my pa's wisdom and substituting my own clothing dreams and fantasies. This, perhaps, was my most fatal mistake. I also happened to forget that unforgettable line from the movie Spiderman: with great pants comes great responsibility. Well, it went something like that- I really can't remember...

Paranoid of what would happen after their first trip through the wash, I decided to put off cleaning my pants for the standard amount of time: about 2 months. I suppose a handy rule of thumb for clothes cleaning could be derived from this: once your pants discreetly and distinctively change from their original color, throw them in the wash you clod! Taking this new guideline to heart, I hugged my pinstriped pals and set them off into the dangerous washing machine world. {Sob} they just grow up so fast, {sob} ya know?

Well, knowing there was little else I could do, I decided to do little else than flip on a rerun of the Simpsons. A near 20 minutes later, the wash came to a loud halt, finishing the cycle and putting and end to the wild clothing dance party taking place inside the machine. Naturally, I shoveled the mass of clothes out, to notice my brown pinstriped pants at the bottom of the pile. They were wet, but then again I certainly couldn't blame the washing machine for that. After all, that's why I keep him around any way, right?

With little haste, I tossed the mammoth pile of clothes into the drier, placing my pants on the top of the heap. With even less haste, I did my finest Andie Cap impression as I plopped onto the homely pink couch in my living room. Although I knew I couldn't let the drier stay on too long (for obvious, shrinkage related reasons), my attention span was put to the ultimate test when an hour long marathon of Yes Dear came across my screen. "Must. Stay. Awake." I uttered to myself. "But. Yes Dear. Is soo. Sleep inducing." my rambling followed. Even though I put up a valiant effort, it was of use none: Yes Dear had succeeded in putting another hard working U.S. citizen to sleep.

When I woke up, I noticed something that's rarely heard in a college town: the sound of silence. While it was nice to be able to hear my own breathing (which has a snazzy rhythm, I must say), there was one thing that- much to my chagrin- I didn't hear. Not hearing the rattling of buttons and zippers, it seems that I'd slept through the entire dryer cycle. I jumped to open the machine, but it was certainly too late. Pulling out my now skimpier pants, I tried to think of someone else who'd they'd look more at home on. Say, Alfalfa.




<--- The Little Rascal's Alfalfa. I like his style.





Even though shrinkage got the last laugh, I still feel I pulled out a small personal victory. Why, I enjoyed my groovy garments while I could and walked away with no regrets. Perhaps it just goes to show you that if you can keep your mortal enemies from cracking your skin, you can always keep a little piece of your perfect pants.

In the meanwhile though, anyone wanna buy a pair of brown pinstripeds?