xlv

“It’s a satchel. Indiana Jones wears one.”

-Zach G.

            After eighteen years of soul searching, I have come to a significant stepping stone, a fork in the philosophic road of today, a significant key to unlocking my inner somethingoranother.

            Let me preface this with what I know best: pointless trivia about pop culture.

            Every superhero, every movie character, every gilded idol of my Polaroid childhood seemed to have a signature piece of clothing: a fedora, a Sith deathmask, a red and blue spandex one-piece. It defined them, made them recognizable, exposed threaded aspects of their starchy character. And, now, I think I have found my item, washed and ready:

            Khaki cargo shorts.

            I cannot speak more highly of them with their off-white, machine-bleached cotton, countless pop-up-book pockets lining the sides. A truly masterful piece of artistry, avidly collected and then folded into scratchy drawers, rudely shoved next to my four clean pairs of underwear and ripped Batman blue compression shorts.

            They go with everything, every high-school-branded Cross Country shirt, every v-neck bearing the name of a band I don’t even like that much, every button down that I have ever owned.

            And I wear them like a superhero costume, my superhero costume, proudly and consistently, for weeks at a time, sunlight tanning my lower legs, waiting for everyone else to acknowledge me and, especially, my beautifully matching, magic shorts.