Shopping

Mom decided it was time for me to get new pants. I wasn’t exactly thrilled—seriously, who cares about pants? They’re just pants. But Mom wasn’t buying any of my excuses. She said my clothes were worn out from the long journey and that I was “growing like a weed.” (Her words, not mine.)

So, off we went to the department store on a Saturday morning—prime cartoon time, mind you—and she marched me straight to the boys’ section. I tried to convince her I didn’t need to try anything on, but then she gave me the look. You know the one. The “don’t even think about arguing” look.

The first pair? Too tight. The second? Weirdly long, like I’d accidentally wandered into the giant section. Then Mom started holding up pants with a million pockets, as if I was planning to smuggle snacks or carry a full set of tools to school. “These look sturdy!” she’d say, or “This color won’t show stains!” Meanwhile, I was just trying to disappear into one of those clothing racks and pretend I didn’t exist.

It wasn’t until pair number six—or maybe seven—that we finally found something we could both agree on. By the time we left, I was completely wiped out and 100% convinced that pants shopping is the worst activity ever invented.