This morning, I had a hard time doing pants.

I mean, not wearing them, but figuring out where I stand in the great wide world of them.

Let me back up.

Last night, my daughter danced. She performed as Glinda in The Wizard of Oz with her dance team, and she did wonderfully. She did a beautiful ballet solo, and it’s one of those moments where I wanted to stand up and shout, “I did that!”

But no worries, I didn’t. Mostly because everyone’s pants confounded me.

We live in what I would call a “privileged” area, and everyone wears pants now that I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing in the sixth grade.

And one particular woman was wearing some sort of tie-dyed long-sleeved printed shirt tucked into her “no-no sixth grade” pants with a pair of white go-go type leather boots, and she wasn’t even being ironic.

She just looked fabulous.

These are the things that have frustrated me all my life. Clothes and the wearing of them and makeup and the putting on of it and hair and the wondering what to do with it and deciding to just let it be itself, which, in its natural form, is, of course, orbiting around my head like I’ve just put my finger in a socket.

These are the things that make me long for heaven.

Because one day, I won’t have to worry about pants or makeup or hair. And that feeling I had of watching my daughter dance will be that feeling but a million-fold as God grants me the eternal walk with Him.

And only then and even now in all my pants-hating awkwardness, all I can ask for is that when people see me, they think, “He did that.”