Last night, my youngest daughter wandered into the family room after dinner. She had changed out of her school uniform into a t-shirt and a pair of track pants that looked suspiciously like mine.
“Are those my track pants?” I asked her.
“Possibly,” she replied with a smile.
“No, don’t smile at me. I was just going upstairs to put those on! They are the only pair I have clean!” I yelled bellowed whined said.
I then did a quick inventory of our clothes in my head and added “besides, you own six pairs of track pants and I have two. Why are you taking mine?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, “I guess I couldn’t find any of mine.”
“You can’t find ANY of your track pants? Seriously? Then you need to go and clean up your room,” I ordered.
She left and a few minutes later returned wearing a pair of track pants that I’d missed counting in my previous inventory.
I then realized my kid owns SEVEN pair of track pants. In her defense, some of them are hand me downs from her siblings, but still.
Who needs seven different pairs of track pants?
Well, apparently, my kid does.
And apparently, her father and I have been paying for her to collect them.
As I was going upstairs to do laundry tonight I stopped at my daughter’s bedroom door to talk to her and noticed that she had clothes strewn everywhere in her room.
I started to tell her to clean up her clothes but then I stopped because I was really worried about the fact that if she did clean up her room she might unearth an eighth pair of track pants.
Or, possibly even a ninth.
And that is just way too over-consumerish to contemplate tonight.