Do I regret the pair of khaki pants purchased from the online store? Their online store? Well, that’s a tricky question. For while I may have regrets, I can’t help but have a wave of affection ripple through my chest and a smile quickly spreading over my face, whenever I think back to those khaki pants, from Dockers.

Dockers. Makers of fine khaki pants for nearly thirty years. The same Dockers my father wore. The khakis his father, I assume, did not. And though I never knew my grandfather I hold out hope that if he ever knew me, he’d look at me in my khakis, smile, tip his hat, and approve. Proud.

Those khakis, my khakis, were spectacular. I loved them. gave me the option, of course, to check out as a guest. For that I accept whatever blame I deserve. But I didn’t check out as a guest, because I didn’t feel like a guest. In the moment, I felt like more than that. Dockers, made me feel like more than that. So, acting on the impulse of emptiness, I offered them my email. They were so happy, so appreciative. Immediately they began showing their affections, sending me cheerful thoughts, promotions and offers, full of warmth and kindness, a feeling of safety, of home–I remember even feeling slightly embarrassed at their affections… if only they knew that it was actually them who meant so much to me.

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I tracked the package for days. Envying the office assistant, his job allowing him to be the first to touch the package containing my khakis before I even knew they arrived. The days before delivery were expectedly excruciating but never did Dockers let me feel the weight of waiting–constantly sending me dispatches, tidings, uplifting notes, all to keep my mind occupied, at ease, relaxed.

And the deal of the day is… 

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I wore them often. I wore them well. They helped me achieve a certain type of sophistication I had always hoped to embody. Classy, clean, debonair, rakish, all effortlessly achieved in one perfect pair of khakis. Our times together were some of the happiest of my life. Cherished. Transported on a daily basis towards echelons of comfort and style I had never conceived, never imagined. That wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, pair of khaki pants, my khaki pants. They were beautiful. We were beautiful…

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Yet this truism holds that no true love may exist peacefully, without struggle, without strife. And ours was of the truest caliber. And thus, our love was continuously challenged, sullied, tarnished. The perpetrator of which was none other than Dockers themselves. Their, continuous, tenacious insistence that there was more. That my happiness, our happiness, was nothing but a silly foundation that needed to be built upon. That there was so much more possible than just the happiness of me and my khakis. There notes of initial encouragement and good will, now used to tempt, disturb, and stir desires which were nonexistent. Of course, we found ways to endure these assaults, together. Able to pull ourselves out of the muck. Out of their earnest, persistent attempts to tempt us with a desire beyond our desires.

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The day I spilled ketchup on them I was beyond anguish. I scolded myself, long, harsh, explicit, on behalf of my pants. They had never done me any wrong and yet I failed them. And not only the once, I had failed them twice. First, for the initial offense, but again for being unable to quickly, mercifully, soak them in water to minimize damage (my office refusing to yield from observing their strict pants-on policy, despite my wailing protestations) and then soon after, too soon, I lost them… I lost them…

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Now, in mourning, unsure of where to go, I turned to the only place I could. Back to Dockers. Back to my former friend, former tormentor. Back to that which was with me the whole time, but to whom I plainly came to at best ignore and at worst, disdain. And of course, they were there. They never left. Which is why, regardless of what later came to pass I can never be fully engrossed in my anger. For they were there. They were there. They were there when no one was… They were there…

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I will admit, that I felt comfort, as if a new love were not so far away. But the comfort of new love is always false. The pants were singular. What we had was singular. There could never and would never be another. At the time, this much I denied that I knew. Despite what the world wanted me to believe, despite what Dockers wanted me to believe, my life with khakis was over. Forever.

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I thought often of abandoning Dockers altogether. Unsubscribing from their attempts to introduce me to a seemingly never ending parade of pants. Pants which were no doubt inferior in every way conceivable to those pants, my pants. But, I could never bring myself to pull the plug. For one, I knew my khakis would have wanted me to stay, to move on, and though I couldn’t quite do that this felt like an honest attempt. And two, even the stinging and wretched attempts at replacement brought with them a slight smile, a fluttering memory of those pants, those wonderful, neutral shaded, perfect pants.

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The last straw came around Fall. The memory of my khakis having receded, but never being fully gone – the exponential decay of a memory still there, still haunting, but diminished… And then,

Back to haunt you…

Leaves aren’t the only thing falling…

Boo! 👻

A mockery. I was furious. To be betrayed. To be left. To be so hurt. That Dockers could do this! That they would stoop so low! But, they did. And then I did what I had promised, in the memory of my pants, never to do. I left them. I removed myself from their daily assaults. The last of which now struck me as pathetic, cloying, the desperate gasps of a dying animal.

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You don’t want to miss this…

From time to time my mind falls back to those pants, to Dockers, to the pants of my father, the pants not of his father, and I wonder if perhaps regret is ever a term aptly applied. It is certainly not a term that can be applied fully. What I must admit, shamefully, and what I can only admit to myself in the deepest points of loneliness, is periodically indulging in the illusions created by Dockers. Of fantasizing about another pair of khaki pants. Allowing my mind to wander towards the temptations Dockers had been so persistent in presenting. Of fantasizing about another color, another fit, another style…


Each time however, without fail, I abandon the fantasy and return to the warm memories of those beautiful days, with those beautiful, beautiful pants, their snug embrace pulling me back, giving me comfort once again, from somewhere, beyond. Regret? I wish. 


The Higgs Weldon is a humor website with funny stories, articles, cartoons, and one liners. It was started by the Los Angeles stand-up comedy community, but takes submissions from everybody. Please read and enjoy our jokes!


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