My MID Life Crisis: An Elegy for Ripped Cargo Pants

I have figured It out

Crouched down on a patch of dead grass. Feet anchored to the sides of a shiny, black contractor bag, left hand holding it open, I used my entire right arm to scoop a pile of leaves and sticks and other earth junk into the bag.

It was midway through the four-hour job. My expensive red manicure was toast. Gold chains knotted and dull with sweat. I had BRONZER on. Hot pink sports bra. Believe it or not, even the world’s most unlikely landscaper can achieve flow state out there. That feeling—that primordial love spell cast upon the self, body warmed before the hypnotic blaze of autotelia—only becomes apparent when broken.

Crouched down on a patch of dead grass. Working my arm-broom. I felt the breeze sweep across my naked butt and I submitted to the rupture: I ripped my pants. The Spongebob of it all!

These were not just any pants, though. They were these baggy linen cargos from Gap that I’d bought two pairs of last year. They accrued sentimental value through pregnancy. They were versatile as all get-out; I’d worn them with heels, and I was wearing them with trail-running Asics to tackle MY FIRST YARD WORK EVER.

I felt practical enlisting my cargos for the task, like I was someone who just does yard work, reaching for linen. Hippie ass fabric. My phone was secure in the utility pocket looping Kid A. Mosquitoes couldn’t penetrate my forcefield of tactical butch energy. No one could convince me that I wasn’t the guy for the job.

You may be wondering, “Dia, what possessed you to rake, blow, and bag the literal million leaves on your quarter-acre lot, especially with your delicate frame and slay nails?” Well, as much as I love being a bohemian layabout at home, I needed my husband to see that there’s more to me than scoring sick boots on Depop and the meticulous upkeep of thin 90s eyebrows and bottle blonde hair. I’m not afraid to get dirty; that’s what my Korean exfoliation mitt is for when I’m done.

I needed to show him that I’m outdoorsy.

Andrew’s friend had recently asked us if we considered ourselves “outdoorsy” or “outsidey” (fun question), and Andrew insisted I was merely “outsidey.” The betrayal! Of course he was right, but I was on a mission to prove him wrong. And my mission came to a screeching halt when I accidentally mooned my elderly neighbors.

Maybe it was my exaggerated faith in linen… or maybe it was my belief in Gap as a beacon of quality for normal people like me (Does a sold-out Sandy Liang collab mean nothing in this economy????)… or maybe it was that they were baggy and since when do baggy pants just split? Whatever the case, the shock awakened some existential grumpiness. I started seeing everything for the fufu lame shit that it was. And I began to wonder…

Is everything mid?

Is my life mid?

Am I mid?

“Mid” is a perfect insult because it’s worse than being outright shitty. Shitty knows its place, at least in the echoey cavern of one’s closet. I’ve been laughed at by evil H&M sweaters through the mouths of their mysterious rips after one wash. Buyers remorse crystalizes and hangs like poly-blend stalactites from plastic hangers. You can’t get rid of shitty because that skirt survived the Bush era and you respect its endurance.

Meanwhile, mid desperately asserts its “quality” until you find out, ass pointed skyward in a pile of leaves, that it was trash all along. Shame, shame.

So the answer to “is everything mid?”—everything being consumer goods, namely clothing—is a pessimistic yes. News outlets consistently report a decline in quality as shoppers hunt for sales amid historic price hikes. We’ve known this. And we’ll shop vintage until our modern slop becomes vintage and we’re forced to course-correct.

As for whether I, myself, am mid, I was on high alert the rest of the weekend, tracking my most deliberate subpar decisions and how they make for a life of ripped pants.

–

Showering after yard work. I assess the products lining the bathtub. Dove “deep moisture” bodywash. Dove “intensive repair” shampoo and conditioner. The smell of Dove is clean. Accessible. There’s nothing complex going on here, musk and aldehydes. I clearly believe I am drier than I actually am, or I’m on some “winter is coming” vibe, frontloading moisture before the wind chill has its way with me.

I wash my face with Vanicream. It costs $8.86 on Amazon. Every month, Amazon emails me to say “sorry, you did not earn any commission income during this period” because though I have an Affiliate account from my time as a reluctant “influencer,” and though I make occasional product recommendations on the newsletter, I am too embarrassed to share the link, too proud to pocket my $.25 cut. Even my sense of hustle is mid!

Other shower paraphernalia: a rusty, single-use Dollar Tree razor that I’ve stretched for weeks; L’Oreal Paris EverPure purple shampoo and conditioner; Tree Hut vanilla body scrub.

The drugstore is a dispensary that specializes in mids, when you think about it. And that’s cool. I actively enjoy what’s going on here. I will continue on my path as an Endocrine-Disrupting Target Mom™. Most importantly, I will not let myself believe that this reflects anything deeper about my life.

Or will I?

–

Settling in on the couch for the evening. Already starting to feel sore from the yard work, kinda smug about it. Why yes, I did move my body for four hours straight today with a purpose greater than my own fitness (i.e. attractiveness) because I’m not lazy. Can’t relate to the lazies.

I don’t have a show right now, so I’m surfing every streaming platform to see if anything jumps out. The act alone feels disembodied, like someone else’s hand is holding the Apple TV remote, looking for a new way to waste time.

The Hunting Wives on Netflix. Someone described it to me as “addicting”; I’ll bite. Brittany Snow… what else is she in? She is forgettable. Budget Reese Witherspoon. And this show sucks. The acting is mid. I recall a couple years ago watching this show called Sex Life on Netflix and feeling this way, almost dirty in the disrespect for my own attention. Imagine you die tomorrow and your last moments were spent watching a show you don’t even like. I guess the nice thing about these imagined scenarios, midwit contemplations they are, is that you would be dead, so you wouldn’t know.

I let The Hunting Wives drone on while I scroll my phone. I think of Anna Weyant’s painting This Is a Life? The narrow, rectangular window panes, the silver vase, the uncanny cartoon flowers and text—a bit iPhonic, no?

My baby wakes up from a nap. Her black eyes neutralize the blue light, and I apologize to my reflection in her pupils.

via Gagosian

–

It’s Sunday and I have a friend coming over. The Ukrainian one who looks like a Bratz doll without a stitch of cosmetic work. The stripper-turned-financial analyst. I’m really excited. She’s nice to look at. Obviously I love her. Some people are just so stupidly beautiful that it obliges you to mention that before anything else.

She’s a newer friend. We were Instagram mutuals forever and ended up working on the same floor at Comcast and we were like “oh, hey!??!” Maintaining new friendships in adulthood is complicated. Not hard, but complicated. It’s like, you’re at this point where you have maybe too many good people in your corner, and comically limited free time. How could you possibly fit anyone else? Well, those platonic soulmates… they’re scoochers. They’ll squeeeeeze into that last sliver of your heart and voila: You’re elastic.

She arrives on time with these sweet potato brownies made with sugar-free maple syrup, which sounds like something that shouldn’t exist. I find this fun. Who doesn’t love a relic of ‘90s diet culture? They are incredible. Impossibly fudgy. Not overly sweet. One of the best treats I’ve ever had, somehow. Eastern Europeans will never show up empty-handed and the thing in their hands will always slap.

For 90 minutes, we sit on the couch with my baby and catch up. What else is there to do? She left Comcast and has a remote job now; Meta is her client. It’s going well. She makes more money. I miss eating lunch together and I can still recite her daily lineup: two pieces of fruit, a pear and a nectarine on the harder side (she hates ripe fruit), always opening with a loud CRUNCH; two string cheeses; a few pieces of salami; mini peppers to end on a CRUNCH. She’s moved into an expensive building in Northern Liberties with her boyfriend. I have little to report about my life beyond what’s in front of us. All in all, we have a lovely visit. Ninety minutes.

When she leaves, I am filled with a sense of loss. Of course, I don’t tell her this because I know better; this is something I must work out on my own. But despondency hits like a luteal phase and I am alone, 13 again, learning how to use a tampon.

A couple months ago, Eleanor of Rabbit Fur Coat shared an anecdote from a client who mourned the days of making new memories with friends, whose relationships now exist in an endless cycle of “catching up.” I’ve thought about this every day since reading it. I text another friend who is, crucially, not a mom, who is also a good, honest ear: “I feel like I’m just a friend people sit on the couch with now.” She assures me I’m still fun and worthy of leaving the couch. It’s pathetic how badly I need to hear that.

–

Back to the closet. Purging my clothes for donation and selling, making room for all the new, elevated stuff I plan to buy after ripping my cargos. Let’s pause on the word “elevated.” I hate it. I’m using it here as exposure therapy. Every brand promises to deliver your favorite white tshirt. The godforsaken elevated basic! If everything’s elevated, then nothing is. I digress.

I’m on the dress rack and I count one, two, three dresses in a row from Old Navy, specifically a large haul I made before returning to work from maternity leave. I needed clothes that fit my postpartum body and didn’t want to break the bank knowing (hoping) soon enough, they’d be too big.

One dress in particular makes me shudder: this cream button-front shift dress. It may look inoffensive, but its aura is chthonic. My fingertips burn along the tortoiseshell poverty buttons. You know the ones. This dress was designed for the balmy transition from Hot Girl Summer to Christian Girl Autumn, when Woman has surrendered taste for tacky and small-townish TikTok-coded seasonal monikers. This dress is an Aperol spritz at Applebees, which actually sounds kind of dope now that I think about it. I stuff it in a garbage bag. Be gone!

Hmmmm. Gap pants. Old Navy dresses. Aren’t they one company? No need to ask when I have a GAP CREDIT CARD ready for swiping at all applicable stores, which also includes Banana Republic and Athleta. Behold, the suburban quartet! Now I’m freaking out. Do I only shop the Gapiverse? What trauma has led me here? I must be the only person in history to have this specific panic attack.

I rip through my closet for evidence that I love myself: vintage Tommy jeans that fit like a glove; J.Crew sweaters; Balenciaga silk skirt from my sister-in-law’s time at Kering; Norma Kamali dresses for every occasion; a perfect men’s Oscar de la Renta cardigan that I thrifted for $7; that Uniqlo x JW Anderson cropped oxford shirt that makes me feel as cute as someone who can’t afford Miu Miu can; ivory Jimmy Choo mary janes from my elopement; TIE-DYE LoveShackFancy dress and TIE-DYE Online Ceramics tshirts (let me live); etc. If modern life boils down to “bitches be shopping,” then so be it. I am a lover of things, the energy they store. This pulse check gives me a needed boost.

Later on, I log onto Facebook for whatever reason, probably because I’m mid. Someone had a baby shower. Has anyone ever logged onto Facebook and not seen a baby shower or a gender reveal? I recognize one of my Old Navy dresses on their crackhead aunt—a dress that survived my purge! Head hung low, I go to bag it up for donation, and I freeze. I hang it back up. Kierkegaard: “As far as I am concerned, I am able to describe most excellently the movements of faith; but I cannot make them myself.”

I list my size 26 AGOLDE jeans on Poshmark and Depop for a fraction of what I paid for them. No offers.

–

It’s Friday, a week post-cargogate. I’m sitting on the couch thinking about my plans for the weekend, which is to say I’m thinking about the slow passage of time in unchanging circumstances, which is to say I don’t plan on leaving this spot, really. I don’t plan on doing shit. Pleasant resignation. The fog is dense but I can swat through it and watch the particles scatter, feel like I’ve manipulated nature, feel good, feel powerful. I’m in control for once. The government is shut down (?) and so am I. But at least I have my baby, who is my joy. We are on the couch.

My best friend texts me that one of our friends won two VIP tickets to see Mt. Joy and can’t go. She asks if I want to join her. My shoulders tense up because I know what I must do. I must seize the moment, put on some denim shorts and drink a Diet Pepsi and sit while the crowd stands, laughing with my bestie who also didn’t listen to their latest album. It’s still hot out. VIP parking is right by the gate. The VIP lounge has free cookies and clean bathrooms. I’ve got to get off the couch.

Well, who am I to deny the power of saying yes to an ordinary act of kismet? Young girls in long white skirts and cowboy boots hold tight to their lovers who hold tall cans of Miller Light. We eat cold french fries. Run into a few friends, one who is so drunk he can’t open his eyes, and hugging him is more like he collapses and we catch him but he smiles. He never stops smiling the smile of someone who has, much to the confusion of everyone around him, figured it out.

I remember that my shorts are from Old Navy. Wholly and graciously, I believe my small life is anything but mid.

my Old Navy jorts