This is how it starts. This is the feeling of turning into an old person.
I am aware, and have made my peace with, the much remarked-upon phenomenon of musical tastes frozen at the time of adolescence. While I try to make forays into This Noisy Music All The Kids Are Listening To, I always come back to Big Daddy Kane, KRS-1, EPMD, and the like. I will be this way until I die, and it’s OK. But there is another way I am stuck: in my conception of What Pants Should Cost. This is much more problematic.
I moved out of my father’s house when I was 17, and I have been solely in charge of pants acquisition during the 20 years since (with some periodic, half-hearted intervention from romantic partners). In those two decades, I have become appreciably better at many of the things I started doing at 17, but not buying pants. I am irrevocably stuck with the notion that I should be able to acquire a decent pair of khakis or other office-worthy slacks for $25.
I am the worst kind of curmudgeon, a scolding old man in a young man’s body, forever decrying the needless conveniences of the modern era. Not surprisingly, at this time of year, I turn my luddite ire on air conditioners, which have always struck me as the height of needless luxury, at least for those among us who are able-bodied and not afflicted with respiratory problems. As such, I have always happily and blithely assumed that air conditioners impose a crippling cost, but it turns out that it’s between $40 and $120 a month, which isn’t nothing, but isn’t plutocrat money either.