I Just Want My Pants Back

Title: I Just Want My Pants Back

Author: David J Rosen

Synopsis: This story takes place in New York, where we follow around Jason Strider in his quest for…something. Jason is your typical college graduate who doesn’t know what he wants and is just killing time until he “figures it out.” He parties too hard and too often and sleeps with inappropriate women. For all intents and purposes, emotionally, he is the male, slacker, pot-smoking version of Meredith Grey.

Things I Have To Say About It: I’m doing it again – the thing where I start to take everything I read personally. It’s not enough just to enjoy the book, I have to analyze and over-analyze it until I start becoming convinced that somehow the author is trying to send me a message. And not in that literature class, symbolic, greater meaning kind of way. I mean in that literal, they wanted to tell me something, but didn’t have my address so they had to publish it in a book and hope I’d read it kind of way. Every book becomes so goddamn relevant and I’m starting to over-identify with my protagonists. If I’m reading the signs correctly (no pun intended), this all means that I’m due for a bout of depression sometime soon.

Of course, maybe if I’m going through this sort of phase, I should stop reading books about genocide and rioting. With this in mind, I put Darfur Diaries back on the shelf and decided to read this book, that my sister sent me for my birthday, instead.

Kat told me it was funny. I guess it might have been if I hadn’t felt that it too accurately mirrored my own life. Not that I’ve deflowered an Orthodox Jew, or been reduced to dressing as a piece of food and handing out fliers to pay the rent, but I do have that typical-of-my-age “I don’t want to commit to something unless I’m sure it’s what I really want,” accompanied by its best friend, “Wait, what do I really want?”

I find that both these mentalities lend themselves to laziness. I mean, lately my ambitions have included things like owning a hammock and finding out when the Grey’s Anatomy premiere is. And then look at my house – I’m a firm believer in the idea that your personal space (home, room, desk, whatever) is reflective of your mental space. Right now I have a stack of dishes in my sink that I only wash when I need one of the dishes in there (and then only that dish). Similarly, I only take my laundry off the line when I want to wear it, and the dress I wore to my friends’ wedding is crumpled in a heap in the corner. I really like that dress, by the way. It’s my only real grown-up cocktail dress – a cute little black number that I picked up in Spain. I’ve only worn it twice – once in Monaco and then to the wedding and both times I ended up with a sore throat afterward. Anyway, a thing of beauty, it now lays discarded, reeking of cigarette smoke, body odor and probably cake. Yes, physical state definitely reflective of mental state.

Anyway, I liked the book. It was a quick read and a good laugh (when I wasn’t taking myself too seriously) and it made me feel American somehow. Sometimes I get a nervous, nauseous feeling – like a preview to the reverse culture shock I’ll be experiencing – when I think about how I don’t have any idea what’s popular in America right now. Not that I was ever that in-tune before, but now I’m pretty sure I would get my ass handed to me by a four year old in a pop culture trivia game. So it was nice to read something by an American author, about an American experience plaguing the recently graduated from college. Even if I have no idea what heights Britney has reached on the trash-o-meter (although, I did see pictures of her “comeback” online), or which continent Angelina’s latest kid is from, I’ll still have the wandering, angst-y intellectual niche to fall back into.

Thank God, right?

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