One of the first things that we learned about Number Four was that she had an unusual collection of pants. Highly unusual. She actually owned a pair of red jeans. RED. Like blood. Those were probably the most disturbing. There was also a pair of jeans, or maybe they were corduroys, that were striped in various shades of blue, with the occasional yellow stripe. The thing about the weird pants was that she would wear them with, say, a bright purple hoodie. It was an assault on the eyes, really. You would see her and just wince and look away quickly. Now, this truly might not have been that bad, but Number Four was not a small, cute girl. I'm not a skinny girl myself, but I do not walk around with gigantic portions of my flesh exposed to the elements. Somehow, even while wearing pants and a sweatshirt, Number Four would manage to walk around with a slab of about six inches of blubber on her side flapping in the breeze. It was like her clothes conspired against the world. Her pants would creep down, but only on one side, usually the left. At the same time, whatever she was covering the top half of her carcass with would slowly inch upwards, also usually on the left side. And, in complete defiance of all that is right and good in the world, she would never, ever, ever fix either article of clothing. It was baffling.
But there was one pair of pants that Number Four loved above all others; loved beyond reason. These were a pair of pajama pants that had crazy combinations of colors in vertical, wavy stripes. Sort of like these, but much brighter and more glaring colors. And paired with a bright purple sweatshirt. And with six inches of side-slab exposed. It was truly a sight to behold. The pattern and the copious amount of material needed to fit her led us to determine that they resembled a circus tent. Hence, Circus Pants. Not Circus Tent Pants, like you could logically conclude. No, Pamala, Orly and I are not bounded by such trifles as logic. They were Circus Pants. The thing about these pants was that Number Four would sleep in them every night. Which is fine. Except for two things. First, she would come home from class at around noon, sometimes even as late at two, and immediately change into these eyesores. And wear them the rest of the day. For hours. Now, I have nothing against changing into your favorite comfy pajamas when you get home. But. And this is huge. She never washed them. Not once. She would wear them on laundry day when she washed every other piece of hideous clothing she owned. But the ones that she wore for hours and hours every day, and slept in every night? Those never saw one drop of soap.