It was the clamdiggers

ARDAHAN, Turkey (The New York Times) – The governor of Ardahan, a province of about 90,000 people in northeast Turkey … was fired last week, and some people quickly started speculating that he had been fired because of his bicycle pants. (As) a bicycle enthusiast … he often posts photos of himself, generally wearing the kind of skin-tight leggings and jerseys commonly worn by serious cyclists. [One political opponent was quoted as saying] “This is not how a governor should act.” Many on social media seized on the athletic wear controversy, citing it as the reason for his ouster.

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Yes. There is, in fact, a substantial risk that I’ll be forever branded as a poor loser, a bad sport, an adult crybaby – lying on his back, kicking and mewling in a hot-tub-size crib with a martini in one hand and a cellphone connected to a white-shoe lawyer in the other.

But dammit, I’m absolutely sure that this is what really happened – as sure as I am that the lawyer will eventually wind up suing me for non-payment. The real reason I wasn’t picked for that recent vacancy on the town zoning board was because I showed up at a meeting wearing capris.

You know, the things we used to call clamdiggers – colorful, tight-fitting pants ending in the middle of your calf and drawing irresistible attention to whatever horrific collection of varicose veins and desiccated epidermis you happened to be advertising that day. And, yes, I realize it was the middle of winter, but I had no choice. They were the only clean trousers available to me while my washing machine endured agonizingly slow repair by one of the only plumbers in the county specializing in the use of all-natural tools. You have no idea how difficult it is to loosen a machine screw with nothing but two sticks.

It was an awkward showing, I admit, but did anyone on the board bother to ask if my regular chinos were OK, and hadn’t been damaged in a biking accident or something? No. Of course not. And was there any suggestion of concern for my personal health, given that I had trekked on foot through sub-freezing temperatures to make an appearance before their zoning eminences? The chairman has a prize-winning case of gout, for crying out loud, so I know he had a heating pad somewhere in his desk. Not even a hint that he’d be willing to lend it to someone with an obvious case of spider veins.

More important, what about the list of exceptionally creative recommendations for improving the curb appeal of the commercial plaza being constructed along Main Street that I managed to extract from the pocket of my frozen clamdiggers? Yes, I copied the photos from a coffee table book of Frank Gehry designs, but, as you can well imagine, the top of my washing machine wasn’t available to allow me to sketch my own architectural masterpieces.

I’m sorry, but all the evidence points to what I maintain is a stunningly flagrant example of discrimination against not only clamdiggers, but anyone daring enough to wear them in January. I and my forward-thinking zoning proposals were summarily and unfairly rejected because my pants failed to reach my feet.

This is not how government in smalltown America is supposed to function, ladies and gentlemen, and I for one will not stand by while our democracy is assaulted.

Well … not in my capris, anyway.