Raiders of the Lost Pants

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I have dreams of being an adventurer- someone who knows their way around maps and mountains and villages hidden by time. Someone who not only appreciates the dark corners of the world, but navigates them with ease and style. Someone who walks around a lot and never says things like “I can’t go adventuring today because I don’t have the right kind of pants.” I want to be the person who can adventure in any kind of pants. Indiana Jones never complained about his pants, he just up and adventure’d in the same trousers that he wore on the plane from the States all the way to Nepal, and he didn’t think “Oh, I’m going to see Marion for the first time in, like, ten years, maybe I should change my pants,” he just walked through a mountain blizzard and into the tavern, flashed his wooly smile at her, in those pants, and then he fought a bunch of Nazis AND fire and still got the girl. In those pants. Granted, at that point, they’re kind of lucky pants. I wouldn’t take them off, either. Those pants are obviously something special. But what I’m saying is, I should just put down all the books and articles about adventure and ancient paths and wilderness living, and take this gift card to the sporting goods store and buy a pair of pants that I can go¬†tramping around the mountains in and just be done with it already. Those pants that I used to have- those perfect pants with all the pockets- are gone, and so is the waistline that fit into them, so it’s time to just buck up and get some fat pants and go climb a freaking mountain before the Summer comes along and you’re back in shorts, 20 pounds heavier and wondering what you did all Winter.

Jesus.

Indy never had this conversation with himself, I’ll bet you anything.

About Mara

From a small country called Nu Yawk, now residing with less and less resistance in a big city called Atlanta. When I'm not completely overwhelmed by my reading library and Netflix queue, I manage to indulge my love of hiking (or, in my case, "rugged walk-falling"), my love of beering, and my love of drifting off during social occasions to fret over how I'm ever going to read everything and watch all of the things I keep putting in my Netflix queue. I love to write, but I hate writing. I am mortified that I just added another blog into the world. After death comes nothing, so I might like to be Claymated for further adventures.
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