“It’s been nearly four months of commuting now,” we said in February 2007, “and we haven’t seen a soul rip his pants on the train. In fact, we can’t even picture it happening. If you knew the armrests were known for this–and if you read the papers and watch the news, it’s hard not to know about it–how dopey do you have to be for this to happen?”

Well, the joke is on us, isn’t it?

It was the 8:16 this morning. I stood next to a seat in the middle of the car, then decided I might find something near the rear. The choice seats were taken so I opted for the aisle seat in a six-seater, hoping no one would take the seat across from me. (I’d flown Delta earlier in the week. I’d had enough squeezed legroom for the month.)

I dropped my rear into the seat, and heard a horrific krrrrrrppp, like an ogre sticking his hand through your chest and ripping your heart from its aortic valve (I have no idea if that’s anatomically accurate.)

I looked down at the damage: an inch-long gash where the top of the pocket hits the pants, a half-inch rip at the bottom of the pocket. My head swerved around to see who witnessed my folly–how could they miss it?–but no one looked up.

Mercifully, they’re ancient chinos–if I had to pick one pair to sacrifice on the 8:16 this morning, it’d be these. The bottom of the right pocket has had a hole in it for so long that every time I get change back from making a purchase, I have to repeat the mantra “leftpocketleftpocketleftpocket” until I’ve successfully retired the coinage to the working pocket.

So it’s no great loss. But boy, did I overestimate my intelligence.