It’s June, and I’m dissatisfied.
By June, Oregon is supposed to be a glorious wonderland of flowers and sunshine and frolicking woodland creatures. People are supposed to be wearing shorts and sunglasses. The highway to the beach should be clogged tight, and the college kids should have filled their mini-pools with ice and beer by now, so that they can laze in their bikinis and swim trunks on the three by three patch of lawn in front of their dorms.
This is not the case.
Summer is coming late to Oregon this year, and I’m starting to give up hope that it’ll ever really come at all. We have had brief splashes of sun, where the weather climbs temporarily into the mid-seventies and the Oregonians crawl out of their holes like delirious backward bats and hang on.
Hang on one second.
I am looking out my window right now and there is a kid, probably fifteen years old, sauntering down the street with his pants around his knees. Not his thighs, no, his knees. He isn’t wearing a shirt, has his baseball cab tilted sideways, and has a towel draped casually over his shoulder, as if to say, “Oh, me? I just got done doing some crunches. Lots of reps. And squats. Wanna feel my bicep, baby? This thing is solid like a frozen pack a’ Gogurt.” He is flexing every few moments and running his hands over his own prepubescent pseudo-abs in blatant admiration.
The thing that bothers me about this scenario is that this boy actively has to hold his pants up to prevent them from pooling around his ankles.
Let me repeat that.
He is purposefully sagging his jeans, presumably to attract the female of his species, but he has to perpetually hold them up to prevent a pathetic self-pantsing.
I can only assume he is trying to look gangster or something, but what is the logic of this? Boy, what if somebody wants to pop a cap in you? How will you defend yourself if you have to hold your jeans up while you throw down? Can you run in those things? Can you jump? I half expect them to get stuck on some passing car and drag him away.
I was going to write more about the weather, but now I am just too distracted. Here, I’ll sum what I was going to say: it’s wet and I hate it. There, post finished. I can focus my thoughts on the baffling actions of a fifteen year old boy who is trying to look ‘fly’.
Maybe these are the only pants he owns and they don’t fit, in which case he should be pitied. Maybe nobody has ever taught him how to put pants on. Maybe the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt in fifty five degree weather signifies some skin condition where he can’t feel cold, or embarrassment.
There, he has walked past the frame of my window, his jiggling swagger gone from my view forever. I will never be able to ask these burning questions.