An Ode to Pants

It was like a dream, the way all my memories from childhood have grown. A bad dream this time, set in a tiny dressing room — even though I must have been only been four or five, it felt tight as a prison cell. Sears. The first time I'd been to a clothing store. Summertime, maybe. There was that feeling of finding a pocket of cool crisp air amid a humid too-bright world. We were buying pants. I was supposed to find ones that fit me. None of them did. All of them felt too confining, too tight around the knees, too weird a texture. I was saying no to them all but my mother kept feeding new ones over the dressing room door. Asking questions: trying to trick me into liking one, into saying yes just this once. I have no memory of that final yes, but it must have come. It didn't matter. I had learned that day that I hated pants, and would no matter what.