I ripped my pants while walking to my train tonight. A small tear just below the left pocket. I realized that this tear happened when I sat down in my seat on the train (Completely uninteresting sidenote: I NEVER sit on the train. There just happened to be a near-empty car, so I took a seat. Had I not sat down, I likely never would have noticed the tear until someone pointed it out to me next week when I wear my black suit again.)

Those who know me well, and thus are likely reading this now, know that I tend to have a bit of a temper when it comes to seemingly innocuous things. One night, Amanda watched in wonderment/horror as I repeatedly slammed the roll of aluminum foil against the countertop because it wasn’t unwrapping properly. Do I realize that this is ridiculous? Certainly. However, that doesn’t stop me.

So it was incredibly troubling to me that I did not react negatively to this tear. It occurred to me that my suit wasn’t terribly cheap and that replacing my pants would be a costly measure, relatively speaking. But I did not get angry. Not one bit. And it scared me. It made me nervous. And it also got my mind-a-thinkin’.

The most memorable moment of non-anger in my life came during a turning point in my life. In the midst of my period of unease, post college graduation (flowery terms!) I was in an auto accident. Details aside, my car, my pride and joy, was destroyed. And I knew it the moment I got out of the car.

The only other time I was in an accident, when I was 18, an elderly women (who wasn’t supposed to be driving I found out later from her daughter who called my home to apologize) pulled out of an intersection to take a left and just stopped her car. Right in the middle of the road, leaving me no alternative but to hit her car. I flipped out. I threw a rock. I cursed. I was a jackass. But I was emotional, at least.

Sitting on the train I couldn’t help but think back to the rainy November night when I lost my car because some idiot couldn’t decide whether they wanted to make a right turn. And I couldn’t help but think of how I reacted. Calmly getting out of my car and making sure that the woman was okay and talking rationally to her and telling her that everything was going to be fine and that, “A car is just a car. I’m just happy we’re both okay.” I remember saying that now and I think, “Who was I?” I don’t believe that. That car meant more to me than 98% of humanity does. I drove that car to Canada, West Virginia, Florida, Philly, god knows how many times to New York City, oh, and close to 8,000 miles in one trip around the United States in 2 weeks. And that’s not to count the number of long, random night drives down dark back roads and trips to Boston and Providence. That car was as much a part of my life as anything ever was. A car is not just a car. And my car deserved better than my reaction the night that it died.

My pants will never be as important to me or as defining as my car was, but they’re still a part of me. Once a week. Every week. The loss however, isn’t a life-changer. Not even in the least bit. Pants are replaceable. However, as I found out, a car is not always replaceable because the memories that you had with it aren’t. So my advice to you is to find something that defines you once you finish reading my self-indulgence and appreciate it if only for a little bit. Thank it, no matter how inanimate, for being there for you. As I found out 2 years and 26 days ago, it can go away in an instant. I was reminded of that tonight looking at a hole in my pants.