The Person I am Next To is Encouraging Poor Pants Desicions

I am next to this svelte gentleman ordering at a coffee shop. He is very thin and has accepted this fact. He is dressed in fitted clothes that accentuate his overabundance of underabundance. His shirt is a white button-down, with the sleeves rolled crisply to mid-forearm. It is tucked into pants that are... problematic, more on this later. He has tan loafers on, and he has eschewed socks.

He has a lanky confidence to his stance; leaning over the counter splaying his angles with a social comfort that I envy.  Moreover, he seems nice, chatting nonchalantly as he orders his coffee. No soy milk? Oh, no problem, I’ll just take it black, thanks for checking though.

So, pants.  They are nice pants.  They are well fitted and cuffed to about mid-ankle. They complete his look, and despite this next sentence that look is a timeless cool dude sort of look.

The pants are bright orange. Very bright, like poisonous toad bright. Like a freshly made traffic cone, ready to avert disaster, bright.  Like the sweet sorbet of a push-pop set against the grimy hands of a particularly desaturated 5-year-old.

Note, this not the problem with the pants.

I do not hold the opinion that there are ugly or wrong colors. This gentleman is proof of this, consider these three facts. One, he is handsome, but not too handsome, like an approachable model from the background of a stock photo. Two, he is wearing blindingly orange pants.  Three, he looks cool.  

In fact, he has me thinking, maybe I should get some orange pants.

Note, this is the problem with the pants.

This guy isn’t a paragon of beauty. It is easy to fall into the trap of thinking; I could pull off what he pulls off. He is promoting the idea that anyone can look like an autumnal god in clementine slacks.  

But, I can’t. I cannot be cool in goddamn lava pants. Even if I copied his look down to the last button.  Even if I had everything tailored to be a perfect fit. Even if I ate less bullshit like push pops and was elegantly thin as this guy. 

It’s in the way he carries himself. He walks like he deserves to wear orange pants.  His stance proclaiming that his nethers are draped in the glowing hues of a perfect sunset with no concerns.

Whereas I would spend the entire time wearing them, and roughly a month afterward, neurotically debating if everyone around me thought I looked like an idiot. That constant self-recrimination would translate itself through my walk, my stance, and I would look like an idiot.  That’s the rub.

Do they still sell push pops?