THE RIGHT PAIR OF PANTS

I was introduced to my husband by a mutual friend. Neither my husband nor I was particularly impressed with each other. If anything, we both felt a bit underwhelmed. Our first real date wasn’t the day we met but occurred two weeks later, when my husband-to-be fished my phone number out of his pants pocket during a hospital night shift.

The Day We Met

But let me start with a shower, a hairdo, and eating out.

I lived in Riga, Latvia, with my parents in a three-bedroom apartment. Like most apartments at that time, we shared one bathroom: my father, my mother, and me, in that order. Our apartment was not a communal apartment, where people shared space with strangers (who, of course, became either friends or enemies). In communal apartments, two or even three families shared a single bathroom—without the benefit of something like the bathroom schedule from what later became one of my favorite TV shows, The Big Bang Theory, with Sheldon’s meticulously crafted bathroom schedule. Typically, in these communal spaces, people just yelled, screamed, and demanded their turn.

In my case, it usually worked out, though occasionally we had our share of screaming over who was going first. My turn was always the last one.

The day I met my husband-to-be, my shower was interrupted; my mother decided that an incoming phone call couldn’t wait.

I had just dried—or almost dried—my hair and picked up the phone. My recently married friend, who was turning into a matchmaker, yelled, “Come downstairs! We’re going out!” I was both reluctant and excited because a few days earlier, he had asked me if I wanted to meet a tall blond man or a not-tall, dark-haired man.

“Of course, a tall blond!” I said without hesitation. Like all girls my age, I wished for a charming tall blond prince.

My matchmaker friend had other plans and even asked me to stand next to him to check my height. So, the day came to meet what I thought would be a fabled blond date.

But my hair was still somewhat wet, and I wasn’t in the mood.

“No nos!” he barked. “Don’t make me wait!”

The prospect of going out was appealing, so I put my large fur hat on my damp hair, threw on my winter coat, and came down the stairs to meet what I thought would be a blond fairytale knight.

The Day With My (Not Yet) Husband

The car was waiting. My matchmaking friend was behind the wheel; his new wife sat beside him. This was the first time I met her. I was struck by her grace and beauty.

In the backseat, behind the driver, sat a man who was neither blond nor, from what I could tell without his standing, particularly tall. He had dark hair and a dark mustache. I was shocked. I sat beside him, still wondering when we’d meet the supposed prince I had been promised.

We drove to a seaside restaurant in Saulkrasti, a coastal town whose beaches stretch about 40 to 50 kilometers north of Riga. Saulkrasti, ironically for the often-rainy weather of the Baltics, translates into “sunny shores.” Its shore is known for its mix of pine trees, beautiful yellow sand, and my favorite sand dunes.

Inside the restaurant, overlooking the shore, I took off my hat, revealing hair plastered to my scalp. I glanced in a mirror and was disappointed by what I saw.

We ate; then we walked along the beach, stomping our heavy boots on the snow-covered beach walk. I thought that would be it for the day, but the matchmaker had other plans.

Later that evening, we drove into the city to another restaurant for drinks and dancing. I danced like Elaine Benes—one of my other favorite characters from Seinfeld—huffing, puffing, and waving my arms. Not quite as well as her, but close. (My husband still loves to remind me, “You were huffing and puffing, pursing your lips, and paying attention to no one around.”)

Apparently, walking on the beach, eating, and dancing weren’t enough for the matchmaker. We drove to his place. I don’t remember what we did there, but finally, we were ready to call it a night.

Being a gentleman, the dark-haired man volunteered to walk me to my apartment. In the entryway, he asked for my phone number. Since I wasn’t particularly interested, I recited it faster than I normally speak, which is already rather fast. I was glad he didn’t write it down. I didn’t know he already had it.

I thought we were done.

Two Weeks Later and Pants

Two weeks had passed. It was a regular Tuesday. I was home from work, had just finished supper, and settled in with a book, enjoying my time alone. The phone rang and I answered it.

At first, I wasn’t sure who it was.

“How are you doing?” a man’s voice asked.

“It’s me,” he said. “We met a few weeks ago. Remember? The restaurant, the walk, the evening at our mutual friend’s apartment?”

“Oh,” I said. “How are you? I’m impressed you remembered my phone number!”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I just had it in my pocket. Our mutual friend gave it to me that morning.”

“Oh,” I said. “Why are you calling now?”

“I’m on night duty at the hospital.”

We talked for quite a while. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed our conversation. Apparently, so did he, because he asked me out. I accepted.

Later, I found out why he’d called. That night, he’d worn the same pants he had on the day of our group outing. Bored during a quiet shift in the hospital when the nurses did not require any help from the attending physician, he tried calling several friends—no one answered. Then he put his hand in his pocket and fished out a small piece of paper. My number.

When I accepted his dinner invitation, I had no idea he’d just pulled my number from the pocket of his pants. If he had not worn the same pants as the day of our seaside escapade, and if he had not been bored during his night shift, we probably would have never met again.

Our First Actual Date

The weather on our first date was mild for mid-winter. I wore my sheepskin coat, red stiletto boots, and a beret—my mother’s favorite kind of headwear. She used to be a hat maker. She loved hats and loved seeing me in one.

We agreed to meet in the city center and walk to Riga’s old town. I took the trolleybus and met him at the stop.

That night, I was ready to let go of the fantasy, not just the tall blond prince, but the idea that he had to be tall. I wanted to give something new a chance and not only in terms of the fairytale image. And surprisingly, it turned out to be amazing.

From the start, I told him everything unflattering about myself. Maybe I wanted to push him away. Maybe I thought it would be easy, especially since it took him two weeks to call. That call was almost a fluke.

As we walked to the old town, I loved walking along the cobblestone streets, where I used to carry my easel to paint. Unbeknownst to him, Kafejnīca Rīdzene was one of my favorite restaurants in the old town.

I loved the clicking of my boots, the crispness of the winter day, the feeling of not being rushed. I don’t remember what we ate, but I remember what we talked about.

He told me about his mother. He lost her to breast cancer when he was sixteen. That was one reason he wanted to become a doctor. He said he still talked to her, especially when making important decisions, and that she was still there for him, just as she had been when she was alive.

I wasn’t sure how to react; I wondered, was he crazy? But his words touched me deeply. I stopped thinking about our near-disastrous group outing. I looked at him differently.

I noticed his long eyelashes, the way they cast shadows under his eyes. Greenish-gray eyes, depending on the light. He spoke honestly, openly. I remember thinking I’d never met anyone so uninhibited, so unconcerned with making an impression.

We talked, and talked, and talked, long after our meals were finished.

That night I wore a neatly fitted orange dress and long earrings. My hair, no longer plastered to my scalp, nicely framed my face. But I thought little about how I looked. I was all ears. So was he.

He told me his mother had been a librarian and loved reading. I wished I’d met her. I knew she would have loved me, because I already felt I was loving her.

He still remembers that night, too. He remembers my attentive face. I’m not sure what I was telling him. Probably something unflattering. That was always the case. I’ve always liked to strike first. All my friends had to prove they wouldn’t abandon me. He passed that test for many years to come.

But that night, I wasn’t worried about being abandoned. I only wanted to listen.

Postscript

We got married a year after that first date, on March 20, 43 years ago. Thirty-eight years ago, we uprooted ourselves to join my sister in New Orleans, LA.

We still can’t shut up. He, always organized and neat, has gotten used to messy, disorganized me. He still doesn’t understand how I can find anything in the chaos I create. Chaos makes me feel alive.

But more than anything else, we do not need to explain anything to each other, and we know that we take to heart the words: in sickness and in health, in whatever the outside world dishes out to us, our love is unbreakable.

We weren’t supposed to be together; it was the pants that brought us together. Our zodiac signs said we were incompatible. But we defied them.

To this day, he still asks, “How is it that you’re still not bored with me?”

And I still answer, “Because we talk.” But that’s not all.

He’s not romantic in the singing-poetry sense, but he made me laugh and still does. I still remember how he recited Chekhov from memory and quoted Pushkin and Lermontov by heart. We shared our love for the poetry of Blok and Mayakovsky, whom he also knew by heart.

Our twins were born two years later.

To me, it’s a love story wrapped in humor—the humor of our lives. What we shared then, and still share now, is an ongoing love affair with humor. Sometimes quiet, sometimes in-your-face. We like quiet humor, but sometimes, a ha-ha in your face. No matter the difficulties—and there were plenty—we always turn to it.

From the pants pocket call grew our enduring love and commitment. The world can rave and rage, but the pocket call made all the difference. Sometimes all it takes is the right pair of pants.

Ilana Maymind, Ph.D., originally from Riga, Latvia, is a former lecturer in Religious Studies now based in Orange County, CA. While her academic work focuses on religion, exile, and identity, she is expanding into creative nonfiction to reach a broader audience. Inspired by her personal journey of reinvention after shoulder replacement surgery, Ilana is developing a memoir that explores exile, trauma, resilience, and identity—blending scholarly insight with lived experience. Her writing bridges rigorous research and heartfelt storytelling for both academic and general readers.