I was the type of child who dreamed of finding a big cartoon-style bag of cash in the bushes. I wanted that big burlap sack with the dollar sign on it. I think I was ahead of my time, which is not to say I was a particularly smart child. I wasn’t. However, the reason I wanted that big bag of money was beyond my years; it wasn’t for a child’s dreams of owning a pony or a room made of candy or getting radical surgery to become an elf. No, I wanted that money because it represented potential, and I liked the idea owning all that potential.
Now that I’m an adult, I still want that big bag of cash, but for a different reason. I pay bills, go out with friends, sometimes buy food, look after my cat. I’ve got expenses, but that’s not what the big bag of cash is for. I want it for pants.
I want each leg to stop just above my shoeline, short enough to display a subtle window of tasteful black socks, but not so long as to reveal my scandalous shins. I want them to be just big enough to not require a belt but with enough wiggle room in the waist that I could wear one if I wanted. When first I imagined my fantasy pants, I was greedy and wanted pockets of spelunking depth, and I wanted a lot of them. It is a mark of how much I’ve changed over the years that my pocket needs would call for moderate depth, enough only to hold little necessities. My taste has grown simpler with age.
I once told someone about my pants fantasy (pantasy). I went into sterling detail. I didn’t just tell them about the pants, I built them from the ether for this person to experience. This person was my roommate for my freshman year, and what a magnificent a tool they were. This awful human was the type who had his car bought by his parents only to complain about how expensive insurance was–which the parents also provided. They complained about how expensive college living was, and the parents sent money every week. They also told me I’d only understand love once I was in a “committed adult relationship,” while dating a girl in her third year of high school. When I told the story of my dream pants, they looked at me like I’d just finished talking about my day: confused, disappointed, and cautiously worried. they asked me if I knew about tailored clothes. I said I didn’t know anyone named Taylor and why bring this Taylor up now? Does Taylor have pants like that?
Taylor did not have pants like that. There was no Taylor at all. Instead, I was smugly informed that clothes could be designed and ordered over the internet in exchange for enough money to by 10 pairs of my Walmart jeans. Suddenly, the pants could be a reality but not for me.
If ever I am moved to join a revolution, to break free from the grip of the invisible hand, it will not be for the greater good of my lower class comrades, and it will not be to see the monopolists of the world brought down to my level. I do not want to change the world just to see it change. However, I will burn and raze and chant in the street and like, follow, and subscribe those safe revolution-but-not-the-kind-that-gets-anything-done Facebook pages if it means that I can finally–after years of wanting and being met with income walls and smug roommates raised by rich parents–have that perfect pair of pants.