As I stooped to put the box of Christmas decorations down on the driveway, I heard the distinct click of a camera shutter and the voice of my dad.

"Ohmigod...there's a hobo in the house!" he exclaimed.

He was hooting in his famous, tone of mock alarm.

"Honey, we should really pay the help more...the poor kid can't afford to patch his jeans," he laughed.

I gave him a half smirk and he kept it up.

"You know, you could put those things on eBay and get a hunnert bucks for 'em!" he said.

Mom glanced at us and then went back to checking the tree bulbs as I began to defend my poor pants.

"Pop, when you called me to ask for help with the decorations, I didn't have time to change into my Calvin Kleins... besides I earned these holes the hard way!" I said in my defense.

He smiled and before I could stop him, said, "You mean, with a pair of scissors and some battery acid?"

Dad knows full well that I got to this decrepit state by scuffling around on my knees in the course of some sort of knee-oriented carpentry work, but he can't resist the easy jibe.

Even if I had patched these same jeans, he still would have called me 'Raggedy Andy', so I'm used to the teasing.

While, secretly, he loves to see the evidence of progress, the manifestations of honest labor, he also enjoys doling out a good ribbing.

But he has a point. Look at any Fred Meyer or Target ad in the paper and you'll likely see a sale on jeans that look remarkably similar to my own.

And strangely, they're more money than the pairs of jeans without holes or fading.

I'm no cheapskate, but I'd almost rather have a root canal than go clothes shopping, and anyway, I prefer to add my own character to my clothing. A jacket with a threadbare elbow or a shirt with a cigar burn says reams about the wearer.

After I got home and changed out of my work clothes, I looked at my old jeans and realized that they are only one of about five or six pairs in nearly identical condition.

I had to wonder: Do I really spend this much time on my knees? Mostly, when I'm swinging a hammer, it's my shirts that wear out, getting snagged on a proud nail, and my hats are never around long when I get paint all over them or lose them on a job site.

I go through a couple of pairs of work boots every year, but mostly because I buy the cheap ones. Why my pants seem to give up at the knee first is a mystery.

Mrs. Anthony came in just then to see me inspecting my jeans drawer.

"You're not thinking of donating those ratty things are you?" she asked.

She seemed serious, so I assured her that my trusty work pants weren't for sale or rent.

"I think they just need a little attention, honey...couldn't you put a patch or two on them... the legs and the pockets are practically new!"

She frowned a little, "My mom is the seamstress, I'm the shopping person, remember?"

"How about I take you to Sears?" she asked.

She used the cute smile she saves for little kids and dogs who she hopes to coax into something, but it wasn't necessary. Sears has tools.

At the store, Mrs. A led the charge and I followed dutifully, but when we got to the first interchange and I veered for the socket wrenches, I felt freshly manicured fingernails digging into my hand.

"Not so fast, toolboy," she said. " Pants first, weedwackers later."

She dragged me to a rack filled with denim. A young lady with a Sears badge popped up quick as a whack-a-mole critter. "Can I help you?"

Mrs. A began tugging at the blue jean display and chatting with the sales girl and I saw her gesticulating towards me and rolling her eyes. I tried to sidestep away and they both accosted me.

"How about these...?" she said as she held a pair of funky looking carpenter pants against my leg, as if matching my flannel shirt mattered.

The sales girl pulled another pair off the shelf. "These are pre-faded, pre-washed and pre-pressed."

The two of them must have seen my eyes get big, because they both gave me a "what?" look.

"If you ask me," I offered, "those things look more like post-faded and post-washed... why would I want to buy used pants?"

Mrs. A expected this response and ignored me, but the sales critter bought it.

"Ah...well, these are softer and...and they look nice."

I smiled and was about to expound to our young friend about the importance of looking nice when I crawl under a house, but Mrs. Anthony butted in, "We'll take these, and a pair of those."

Later, feeling safe in the aisle between the hammers and the tape measures, I came to the conclusion that shopping for pants isn't so bad, considering that Sears also sells bras and ladies shoes, I got off pretty lucky this time.