More than a year after I asked Amanda to marry me, as I sit here on our little green couch in our tiny little apartment, the wedding day fast approaches. The apartment is full of evidence that confirms it: brown boxes; gift bags; favors; chalkboards; plants; crates; and baskets. Letters flood the mailbox with confirmations and regrets. Supplies are called in and shipped from Amazon, FedEx has agreed to assist, and UPS has kindly extended the contracts of their seasonal workers.
Rarer items are sought, haggled, and procured carefully on eBay. Unique, customized pieces are thoughtfully handcrafted on Etsy and delivered with quirky personalized notes. This is happening. It is real.
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As a 32-year-old man, I’ve come to learn that finding good pants never gets any easier. It is by nature a process designed to produce incredible moments of frustration. I know now that it’s not simply about finding a great pair of pants, but rather, the process, or journey, in which those pants are ultimately found and enjoyed. It is a quest.