The leaves of our trees are showing their newest and best form. With the warm weather comes the new styles of summer. As always, my wife is careful to dress herself in beautiful fashions that come from the many shopping catalogs, the size of telephone books, that arrive daily in the mail. I, on the other hand haven't changed styles since I was born. The diapers evolved into old torn swimsuits that evolved; well, they haven't evolved yet.

Each year my wife tries and fails to find the perfect wardrobe that will make me look thinner and, of course, younger. Each year my wife tries to buy me the perfect outfit that will finally induct me into the ranks of the stylish.

In order to discourage her from her quest, I always remind her of a particular gift of Christmas past. It was a time when the classic trend-setting style was the belt-less and fly-less elastic-band pants. This fashion promised to be the wave of the future because it shortened the time it took to put on one's trousers. .

At first, I actually enjoyed these pants because I always felt comfortable no matter how much I ate or drank. In fact, because of this, I decided to wear the pants to a Boston Celtics basketball game one cold January night.

The old Boston Garden was a fabulous stadium to watch a basketball or hockey game. First, because there is always a great chance of seeing a victory and second because the beer vendors were always easy to find.

Nobody worried about how much beer they drank until halftime. Then everybody in the stadium realized it was time to lose some of that newly added weight. Remember, one only rents beer, they never really buy it.

My experience in the men's room was more interesting and bizarre than any Fellini film could ever be. First, the encounters in the lines were a psychologist's dream. Nobody dared look at the person nearby. If your eyes met it would immediately designate you as "strange".

No matter how much I had to go, I was damned if I would ever look at the guy in front or behind me to check my position in line. Of course, no one would ever look to their right or left either. It simply was not done. I was doing a great job until it was my turn to position myself in front of that most sought after porcelain destination.

With great pride I reached for the front of my pants and was momentarily mystified by what wasn't there. There was no zipper on my first quest in fashion.

I had encountered the ultimate dilemma. Sweat beaded on my brow. Even today, I try not to remember how my insides felt at that moment. After a couple of seconds of panic I realized I had three choices.

First, I could pull my pants down to my knees and do what I had to do. But, I figured if I did that, I was destined to become a headline for the, "National Inquirer" or even worse, "The Boston Herald."

Second, I could have mumbled something about not having to go. But, if I did that, I would be considered a total maniac. Who in their right mind would want to join hoards of men to the men's room at The Old Garden at halftime for no apparent reason. Being called stupid was just a step below being called strange.

So I decided to exercise my third and final option. Fake it. To my surprise I was really good at it. I gave that all-too-familiar relieved look as I stared into the dirty wall in front of me. I even swayed my hips back and forth to prove to all that no tell tale stain would threaten the front of my now hated pants.

I was successful in my charade. I turned around, not daring to look at anybody around me, left the bathroom and returned to my seat. At this time I thought it best not to pick up my second half beer that I always brought back with me after my excursion to the rest room. My bladder would not stand for that. I then waited until well into the middle of the third quarter to return to the men's room, where I found an empty stall just in the nick of time.

My wife was asleep when I arrived home. I quickly got undressed and went to bed. About five minutes later my wife was awakened by an odd smell emanating from our fireplace. She was at first alarmed by the smell. I comforted her by explaining it was only one of those gifts from Christmas past.

Jim Fabiano is a teacher and writer living in York, Maine
Maine Publisher's Association Best weekly column award for 2004
Email Jim: james.fabiano60@gmail.com