I have always detested the idea of 'Guys should be the one wearing the pants in the relationship". Men often choose to be the paramount creature in the relationship because it often emanates and further elicits their masculinity and dominance. It sort of empowers them further amongst their fellow peers, showing that they've authority and power. If so, why would majority of the woman rather further glorify them by being the mademoiselle and give in to man? Is it because it makes them feel elated that her man is actually, very 'manly'? But what has gotten hold to us, to believe that if 'Men didn't wear the pants', it actually emasculates them? I couldn't help but wonder: Why must we let men wear the pants if they could look sexy without any pants?
But I let him take the pants.
We started off with an ogle. The ogle was so protracted that I could remember those eyes. His bright, iridescent doe eyes stared right back at mine; his stare was so intent that it turned crimson while it pierced through my soul (cliché, I know). My cheeks flushed in a similar hue as his eyes did. I was so abashed. And at that point I couldn't help but wonder: Is this what they call... love? Could we be forever?... And ever?
The fairytales and stories of 'Prince meets Princess and it was love at first sight and they kissed and they live happily ever after' cooked up by writers have effectively and successfully caused our youthful and alabaster pure innocent self to buy the stories. And I was one of them who bought them. Why couldn't fairytales occur solely because people claim that 'it isn't reality'? So what exactly do they mean by reality? The normality? The conformity? Just because dozens and hundreds and billions of people out there living the 'normal life', does it necessarily mean that the possibility of fairytales incurring into an individual's life is close to negligible value? It got me thinking. Why couldn't Prince Him and Princess Me live happily ever after? Okay, maybe with the exception that we are not bona fide royalty. What if we were destined to emulate fairytales?
They say that our lives are all written in the stars, and that it is predestined probably a gazillion light years back. And if the stars had destined our fates to be intertwined, maybe one day, instead of standing across each other gawking our gazes, we will actually get together. But when will this day approach? Three days? Three years? Or even three centuries? Shakespeare once said, I adduce: "It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves." What if the whole ideology of fate was untrue? Maybe it was created by an individual who couldn't write his/her own life to the version he/she desired and decided that 'destiny' was the best reason he/she could put the animadversion on. Maybe, like the concept adapted from parallel universes, that each of our actions and decisions we choose and make would result in infinite destinies. So what if I chose not to approach him? Would it eventually en route us to a denouement that doesn't include our lives to be intertwined? If we could actually write our destined fairytale by making our own decisions, wouldn't it be a waste if I didn't take up this risk of contacting with him?
I thought: "Why not let me make the first move?"
I mustered up my courage. I took my first step. And followed on with a second step. And a third. Step by step my heart started to race like as though it was doing a sprint, rushing to be the champion and only the champion, and it felt like I was about to regurgitate my guts out. My entire back was breaking out in sweat. My limbs trembled. But as I got closer, I felt a stronger sense of courage and motivation, that I'm creating my - and our possible which eventually led to a success - destiny, and my fairytale.
Once I was up close before him, I proceeded on by bringing him straight to the cashier. There were no second thoughts. He was this H&M vermillion patent leather trousers. I have loved him ever since. I'm wasn't sure if he did reciprocate my feelings as well - I stuffed him in the corner of my closet. His ego was (and still is) as big and as coarse as he is. He was, indeed, a pants. He was the man who wore himself (the pants).
Rodarte 'Rosarte' t-shirt c/o Shopbop, H&M red patent leather biker trousers, Bimba & Lola sandals
Image credits Imran