Last week, a button popped off the waistband of my pants. Thankfully, it wasn’t because of undue strain due to Christmas binging or two years of Covid (over)eating. No, this favorite pair of pants have just started getting old: first the sporty emblem began to rub off, then one of the zippers on a side pocket went kaput, and now, the threads holding my button in place gave up their ghost.

Rather than change out of said pants into another, nearly identical pair for comfort and fifty-something style, I just grabbed a large safety pin and used that to fasten my pants and prevent them from sliding down every time I stood up. And I thought to myself, I guess this is what I’ll be like when I’m old and don’t want to go out and buy new clothes anymore.

But then it hit me: Who am I kidding? Apparently, that time has already arrived.

Actually, I’m not really sure if my swift employment of safety pins is about my age , my laziness to sewing on the button or my aversion to buying new clothes. I think I’ve always been one to resort to a quick fix when I’ve got better things to do. And for the most part, I work from my chair, drink lots of coffee and water, and only get up for hourly bathroom breaks so maybe the pin wasn’t even that necessary. I mean, I could hold my pants up for the ten seconds it takes to traverse the hallway to my urgent destination. Plus, there is the added efficiency to getting the job done: no button in the way. And who am I kidding? Most of the time, sitting in my chair, with my Christmas/Covid indulgences pressing the matter, I often undo the button and relax into a (girlish) Al Bundy posture in front of my laptop.

But there is a certain decency to wearing clothes that are in good repair. Granted, these particular pants have crossed over to the designation of “Home Pants”. They’re too shabby to wear to the grocery store (unless I’m wearing my uber-long winter coat, shhhhhh!) but they will do if I need to answer the door for a signed delivery or a surprise bottle-driver. (I will quickly run to change before I answer the door if I am caught still in my pajama pants because, I need to at least provide the illusion that I’m working, both to myself and to strangers. Covid dress-code, be damned. For me, anyway. You do you.)

Those pants have lasted me a very long time – I’m guessing about seven years. The replacement cost would be about $70 meaning the originals only cost me about $10 per year. By my Starbucks reckoning, that’s only two fancy-schmancy drinks. A year. So yes, I think I do need to go shopping, whether I like it or not.

Or maybe I just need to sew on that dang button.