“A volunteer will refine the prototype for Antin‘s pants this week.”
Find me another place on the planet where this sentence was just spoken, and I will give you my favorite velvet scrunchie.
I cannot, under any circumstances, give you Antin’s pants. I cannot even be certain that they are properly called “pants,” but let’s go with that.
(Language is always a few steps beyond reality.)
Jonathan suggested chaps, a la Prince c. 1991.
Some recommended suspenders, a la every grandpa worth his granola.
We seemed to be getting close with a tiny coat, buffalo plaid to buffer noble knees from floor-burn.
But ultimately, the plans converged on pants.
With apologies to the Paris, and with all respect to Milan, it is obvious that Ringoes, NJ is the epicenter of haute couture. I have had to hang up on donors to take calls from Louis Vuitton and the House of Halston. Prada’s lead designer is begging us for an internship.
And all because Antin’s knees are not speaking to the hardwood floors.
As one of our beloved paraplegic residents, Antin gets around just fine.
He has the upper body strength of the entire assembly of Avengers, multiplied by several The Rocks, with a Vin Diesel engine. He glides through our Lobby like a tuxedo Zamboni.
But the floor said something foolish to Antin’s knees.
Antin’s knees responded in kind.
And now our sharp-dressed muscle-cat has some sorry little sores in need of…pants.
They are a work in progress. They are (to state the obvious) glorious. They are yet another snapshot of what love looks like at Tabby’s Place, which is to say peculiar, spectacular, and more determined than all the dwarves in Denmark.
And far more fashionable, too.
