The Pants Man

Nick Maxwell asks if it's just him, or everyone, who finds it almost impossible to buy pants.

I love pants. A well cut trouser. A boss pair of jeans. A cuff that that knows how caresses a sneaker. I see them all the time- on other people- and I think how great pants are and that I really must get some more. But I don't. And why? Because actually getting such pants on one's own legs is an ordeal. A changing room marathon where mental and physical exhaustion often leave the competitor panting by the roadside. From the random sizing to the blaring music, serpent-like staff and bottom sweat, buying pants is a Pandora's belt buckle, too dangerous to unlatch.

If I had some major physical issue in the lower half of my body I might appreciate the extreme difficulty in clothing my pins. Were I a faun for example, and had to accommodate a hairy pair of goat legs into my strides the awkwardness would make sense (you'd think to go skinny jeans, but then what to do about hind and waist?). Or if my legs happened to be made of glass (unlikely, but conceivable); pants constantly sliding off my body would be frustrating, but understandable. Unfortunately, I have no such ailment or deformity to explain my abject despair in trying to buy pants.

Let's run through a typical attempt. Most likely the memories of past disasters has been overcome by vanity; convincing myself I deserve to have the great jeans everyone else seems to be wearing. Boldly stepping into the noisy and airless boutique (a kind description) I am immediately overwhelmed by choice. Before I am able to even gather my bearings a young girl slithers up alongside to ask if I need help. But I've been through this before and pull the trump card, "I'm just looking for the moment." Brilliant. I manage to sort through some styles picking out what I think are my sizes- but wait. Does it go waist-leg or leg-waist? Why does 34 sound right? But if so, why are these 34's big enough to fit those two fat guys on motorcycles from the Guinness Book of Records? I'm starting to sweat- where are the volunteers handing out the cups of Gatorade?

Confused but coping, now that I do need help of course, the girl and all other staff have disappeared into the ether; either that or I’m about to be involved in a shootout as change-room doors flap together in the empty store, tumbleweeds rolling by.

Once in the stall trying on ill-fitting pants, naturally the slithering snake returns. Urging me to come out and show her how this particular pair are cutting of the circulation to my torso; in between giggles with her co-worker-snake across the floor she remarks, "Yeah, you look great in those- there a really perfect fit." Yeah, right. Her manner gives me the distinct impression that if I stepped out wearing nothing but a pair of gumboots she'd say, "Yeah, awesome. Your cock looks great with those…"

But then comes my favourite part. Having tried on everything even near my size, being totally unsure and talked around by the snake-girl (who's final trick is to get irritated and stroppy with my indecisiveness), I get to pay $250 for a pair of jeans I take home, try on a few hundred times in front of the mirror, fold up and put on the pile of all the other pants I don't wear. Then I put on my old jeans back on and we're back to where we started, vowing never to do it again.

It truly is a nightmare. I just hope I'm the only one (although, I suspect not.)

- Nick Maxwell