It was the first battle in my war against The Pants, and I was determined to dig my foxhole before the sun went down.  New York City, 2017. My Mom had just gotten me brand new gray pants with cool looking white stripes running down the sides for my school interviews that I would be facing soon. They were the coolest pants I had ever seen, and it was love at first sight. Unfortunately, The Pants didn’t love me back.

After wearing the pants a few times, I began to feel as if it were destiny or fate that brought us together. I was beginning to think that these could actually be my lucky pants, and that I was bound for greatness with my trusty leggings. Boy, was I wrong.

The first time The Pants struck was when I was at a language class. It was break time, and the teachers let us all roam free in a playground nearby. My brother and I decided that it was a good idea to play the legendary game of tag, and everything started perfectly. Being three years older than him, I outran him easily, and he was “it” for most of the break. After a while, I got tired of just running from him, so I started jogging, and that was when the tables turned. My shoes mysteriously became untied, and my brother turned into a formidable opponent. I was determined not to lose to him, so I tried to pull a risky evasive maneuver around a tree, to no avail. I assessed all the possible options for escape, and found the perfect route. The teachers came out and yelled that the break would be ending in five minutes, which was perfect. If I could just shake my predator for five more measly minutes, I would claim the sweet satisfaction of victory.

I pulled a sharp right and flew under some monkey bars only to find John, my brother, still on my tail. That’s okay, I thought, as I had many more evasive maneuvers left in my arsenal. I pulled a quick left, and weaved my way through some girls playing hopscotch. John was relentless in his chase, and I could see the fires of determination burning in his eyes.

I jumped over a short bench, and swiveled around some skinny saplings, only to find my pursuer still chasing me fiercely. 

“Three minutes!” Hollered the teacher.

I was running out of gas. My third grade legs could not carry me much further, yet fueled by pure willpower, they sped on.

I dodged and twisted around people, monkey bars, swings, slides, and sports balls, hoping to see John tired, and begging for mercy. Unfortunately, he chased me harder than a cheetah chases a gazelle, and I knew that this was it. I had to pull the most dangerous maneuver yet.

I found a small puddle in between two short trees in a field of short grass, and decided that this was the spot. I would narrowly avoid the puddle, dodge around two boys playing soccer, and speed off into the sunset while John, being the more cautious one, would carefully make his way around the puddle, which would give me time to speed off into the sunset, galloping merrily. Failure was not an option.

I plowed at full speed towards the puddle, sank my foot deep into the soft grass, and stuck my foot in a patch of grass that looked dry enough to run on, and sped forwards. What happened next felt like slow motion. My right foot slipped on the patch of grass, which was actually hiding another part of the sinister puddle underneath it, and flew out under me. My leg hit the tree, somehow getting caught in a low-hanging branch, and I flew sideways, falling face-first into the mud. 

The disgusting, cold, liquid drenched me, and I blamed The Pants.

My brother was running much too fast to realize what was happening, which caused him to also slip on the camouflaged mud underneath the grass. He plowed butt-first into the foul liquid, and tried to turn back, but it was too late. He opened his mouth, and gasped for air as he fell, which caused him to get a mouthful of the brown, fetid, goo.

The teachers saw us fall, and called our parents to pick us up early, which I guess was a plus. The ride home was extremely uncomfortable and awkward, and we stained the car with the stench of the mud for weeks. We took a shower after we got home, and little did I know that this would be the first episode of my war against The Pants. 

After the shower, I dried myself off with a towel, and started to put my clothes on. I started blowing my hair with a hair dryer, and started humming a tune, when out of nowhere,

“Tag,” My brother said, smiling, as he leapt out of the shower, “you’re it.”

What are the chances?

I blame The Pants.