A Pilgrim’s Digression

One of the issues that arises with long distance commuting is what to do if one forgets something important at home. Business travelers face much the same problem.

When one lives at home all week, getting up in the morning with family and driving five or fifteen minutes to work, forgetting something really isn’t an issue. When my wife forgets something, she either drives home for it at lunch, or she calls me (if I am off) to bring it to her.

If I forget something, there is usually no recourse.

Thus on Monday evenings, when I pack for my three-day stay in Washington, I have to go through a routine of checking and double-checking my bags to make sure I have everything I need.

Electric razor, eyeglasses, hairbrush, pajamas, underwear, t-shirts, three handkerchiefs, three changes of clothes, three pairs of socks, a book for the train, laptop computer (and power cord), wallet, cellphone, cellphone charger, iPod, homemade leftover meals for dinner, frozen meals for lunch…

Forgetting even one of these things can really upset an otherwise good week, although in most cases I will survive.

I have forgotten a book to read, which is not such a big deal anymore because often as not, I doze on the train anyway, and I don’t read any other time these days.

At one time or another, I have forgotten underwear or t-shirts or socks. Again, not a huge deal. For three days, I am a single man again, with no wife to care whether or not I am wearing the same underwear or t-shirt three days in a row. I may feel nasty under my nice clothes, but no one else but me knows about it.

In terms of toiletry articles, such as my electric razor or contact lens solution or soap, I can always buy a disposable razor and other items easily enough on my way to or from work.

However, once, I forgot the power cord for my laptop. Now that, my friends, almost led to a nervous breakdown. I actually found myself considering a lengthy metro ride to the Apple store in Arlington to buy a new, hundred dollar power cord to keep in my room in Washington, just for safety’s sake. I was able to restrain myself, however, and besides, that near-disastrous moment of forgetfulness only happened once, and so far I have kept my vow of “never again.”

This week, however, I forgot something I never realized was essential. Yesterday, when I dressed for the day, I put on jogging pants and a sweatshirt. Now, as far as I know, no one wears a belt with jogging pants. So I did not wear a belt either, and when I went to pack my bags I did not consider that I was packing pants that required a belt, which I was not wearing at the time.

I did not pack a belt.

Why is this so essential an item?

I don’t know. I’ve often thought that a belt might come in handy if I ever need to hang myself, the way inmates in prison movies hang themselves from the bars after being raped one too many times. Not that I ever expect to find myself in such dire circumstances, but one never knows when a belt as an implement of suicide might be called for in an emergency situation.

Perhaps I may need it to strangle an attacker on a dark Washington street, walking home at night. Never mind that I am never out past six o’clock in the evening.

Or perhaps I may face a rabid squirrel in one of the parks around Capitol Hill, and I will find a use for the belt as a kind of Indiana Jones-style bull-whip, cracking it at the beast’s tiny nose to keep it at bay.

Or maybe I just need it to hold my pants up.

Back when we were still dating, my wife once asked me why I always wore a belt, with jeans, with khakis, with dress pants, even with shorts. And I didn’t know how to answer her, because I have always worn a belt without thinking about it much.

All my life, up to the point that my wife questioned my habit, I had supposed that all men wore belts. I might have stopped to consider, for a moment, that women almost never wear belts so it should be obvious why Lynn would question my persistent devotion to that article of haberdasher’s trim.

I feel weird without a belt, though. It isn’t just that my pants feel looser, or that my shirt seems to come un-tucked much more easily (another thing my wife once asked me: “Why do you always tuck your shirts in?”).

I feel almost as if I am wearing no underwear. It is that same blatant disregard for social propriety, as if there is something aberrant about me that I am only keeping thinly disguised.

I like the feeling of security a belt provides, that feeling that everything “down there” is held snugly, tightly secure…and if I need to, I can always whip the belt off and fend off any number of attackers.

A belt provides me a sense of power, and without it I am all but naked. Without a belt, I look at myself in the mirror and I think, “Ugh, I look like some old man in elastic waist-band pants hitched up over his belly.”

With a belt, I look at myself and think, “There’s a young man in control of his surroundings, powerful and attractive to women.”

A belt makes a small difference visually, but psychologically, it is a powerful symbol.

Nevertheless, as I have gone about my morning today, I have been paying attention to how many men I see wearing belts and how many men are not wearing belts. I have also been paying attention to the kinds of pants other men wear.

Standing in line at Starbucks, I counted four men in front of me, none of whom were wearing belts. One was wearing jeans, his cellphone clipped to his right front pocket rather than a belt; another was wearing khakis, a dress shirt and tie, and a sweater–again, no belt; a third was also wearing jeans with no belt; and a fourth, who probably doesn’t count, was a jogger wearing spandex pants that revealed far too much, including the fact that there is no conceivable reason any man should ever wear spandex.

I will keep up these observations throughout the day and, perhaps, report back on my findings. Is it common or uncommon for men to wear belts? Is it a dreadful social or fashion gaffe to not wear a belt with pants with loops for a belt?

If there is nothing wrong with not wearing a belt, why then do I feel as if I am dressed slovenly? I feel like one of those droopy-pants homeless men I see shuffling around the street, their filthy, be-shitted drawers sagging on bony hips.

Before this day is done, I may have to find a clothing store and purchase a belt. I don’t know if I can bear three whole days of this.