Moving recently has put me in a ‘simplify life’ mood and has caused me to purge all unwanted, random crap that won’t be missed from my (now shared) living space. Naturally, this includes clothes, shoes, and other accessories that I haven’t worn or awhile or don’t think I want to be wearing in the future. Some of you may recall my mention of these lovable monstrosities dubbed the “fiesta pants” years ago: I acquired these pants back in my undergraduate days in Eugene, Oregon during a thrift store shopping excursion to search for Halloween costume parts. When I saw them, I knew they had to be mine: they’re my my favorite color, flash orange, and in a pattern that makes no sense whatsoever (solid on one leg, stripes on the other, and the pattern is reversed on the back of the pants). However, it became apparent fairly quickly after their purchase that I was the only one who liked them: when I came home for Christmas and wore them for the first time around my family, my father, whose fashion sense (or lack thereof) has been the subject of many inside jokes with everyone else in my family, took one look at the pants, grimaced and just said, “Oh, Elizabeth.” The pants at a samba rehearsal in Seattle. His disgust at the pants’ mere existence became a common theme: friends, family and boyfriends all hated the pants, which, of course, fueled my fire and made me want to wear them more and more often (and in public, which backfired several years ago when my boss at the time once ran into me at the grocery store when I was wearing them). Lately, however, it seems the thrill of the fiesta pants is gone. Just about everyone I know has been exposed to them, so the shock value has all but worn off. This, combined with the fact that they’ve more or less been replaced by a newer, admittedly cozier model (and Central Texas weather not exactly being conducive to donning fleece pants year-round), has led me to relent and get rid of them. And so it goes: the sartorial circle of life at work. And here we are, the final shot of the fiesta pants, sitting atop a pile of other items to be donated to charity: Parting is such sweet sorrow. Adieu, fiesta pants. May you bring joy to someone new (and haunt the dreams of their significant other).