Do These Pants Make Me Look Rich?

"Do these pants make me look rich?" Sharon asked, strutting out of the dressing room like she was Beyoncé on a budget. She twirled dramatically, stopping just short of a spin because the fitting room was tiny, and her elbow nearly took out a rack of clearance scarves.

I blinked. Rich? Girl, those pants make you look like you work at a high-end bowling alley.

Sharon gasped, clutching her chest like I’d just insulted her mama. Excuse you! These are ‘athleisure chic.’ Serena Williams wears stuff like this all the time!

I leaned back in my chair, which was one of those uncomfortable mall fitting room stools made out of spite and leftover plastic. Serena Williams has actual endorsements, Sharon. You have a Kohl’s coupon and a dream.

Sharon stuck her tongue out and turned to examine herself in the mirror. The pants were shiny black with a stripe down the side that could’ve been mistaken for a parking lot divider. She patted her hips like she was trying to convince herself they weren’t a mistake.

Alright, but imagine these with heels and a cute crop top. Picture me walking into the club like, Heyyyyy, drinks on me!

I snorted. Drinks on you? With whose money?

Sharon spun around, pointing a dramatic finger at me. That’s the vision, Trina. You have to manifest it.

Manifest? Girl, you couldn’t manifest correct change for a coffee.

She ignored me, doing a half-dance in the mirror as she admired herself. I could tell she was already planning Instagram captions for her imaginary rich-girl fantasy. #BossBabe. #SecureTheBag. #PantsByDestiny.

Sharon, those pants cost forty-five dollars. We’re here because you said you wanted to buy socks. How did we get here?

She rolled her eyes. Socks are boring. These pants are aspirational.

You know what’s aspirational? Rent. Rent is aspirational. And unlike those pants, you can’t take it off at the end of the night when it’s uncomfortable.

Sharon shrugged, then struck a pose with one hand on her hip. That’s why I’m investing in me. You gotta look the part to get the part.

The part of what? Background extra in a Pitbull video?

She laughed but still headed back into the dressing room. As the door clicked shut, she shouted through it, You’re no fun, Trina. This is why I’m the main character, and you’re the sarcastic sidekick.

Main character? Sharon, you’re more like the quirky best friend who gets cut from the final edit.

Silence. Then the door creaked open, and she peeked out, her head framed by a wall of overpriced jeggings. Okay, but for real. Do they make me look broke?

I sighed, leaning forward. They don’t make you look broke, but they don’t make you look rich, either. They make you look like someone who’s still figuring it out.

Sharon narrowed her eyes. And what’s wrong with figuring it out?

Nothing. But I’m just saying, maybe figure out the socks first.

She closed the door again, and I heard the shuffle of fabric as she changed back into her regular clothes. A minute later, she emerged carrying the pants over her arm like they were an Oscar trophy.

I’m buying them, she declared.

Of course, you are.

She ignored my sarcasm and marched toward the register, where a tired-looking cashier greeted her with the enthusiasm of a DMV worker. As Sharon handed over her coupon, she turned back to me and smirked. Watch. These pants are gonna change my life.

The cashier raised an eyebrow but said nothing, sliding the receipt across the counter like she wanted to be as far away from this transaction as possible.

Fast forward two weeks. Sharon showed up at my place wearing the pants. She looked smug, like someone who’d just discovered a new conspiracy theory about kale.

Guess what, Trina? These pants did change my life.

I set down my mug of tea. Oh no. What happened?

I got a promotion!

I blinked. What?

She flopped onto my couch, her shiny pants squeaking against the fabric. Yep. I wore these to work last week, and my boss said I looked confident and professional. Next thing I know, she’s offering me a raise and a new title.

Wait. Your boss saw those pants and thought ‘professional’?

Sharon nodded, grinning like a kid who’d just outsmarted their parents. Yep. Told you they were aspirational.

I stared at her, half-expecting her to break into a dance routine. Okay, but what exactly is your new title?

Assistant Vice Coordinator of Social Synergy.

I frowned. What does that even mean?

No idea. But it comes with a bigger paycheck, so who cares?

I shook my head, laughing despite myself. Only you, Sharon. Only you could get promoted because of pants.

She leaned back, kicking her feet up on my coffee table. Not just any pants. The pants.

I rolled my eyes. Alright, magic pants. What’s next? Are you buying a yacht? Running for mayor?

She grinned. Actually, I’m thinking about getting the matching jacket.

I groaned, tossing a pillow at her. Of course, you are.

The following week, I ran into Sharon at the grocery store. She was pushing a cart filled with expensive organic snacks that looked like they’d been handwoven by forest nymphs.

I raised an eyebrow. Since when do you buy ten-dollar kale chips?

She grinned. Since I got the promotion. Gotta live the lifestyle, you know?

I peered into her cart. Is that... kombucha?

She nodded proudly. Lavender elderberry. It’s supposed to cleanse your aura or something.

Sharon, you don’t even believe in auras.

She shrugged. Doesn’t mean mine can’t be clean.

I shook my head, wondering if this was a phase or if I’d lost my best friend to the cult of overpriced wellness trends. So, how’s life as the Assistant Vice Coordinator of Social Synergy?

Amazing. I’ve been networking, going to fancy brunches, and—get this—I got invited to a rooftop mixer downtown.

A mixer?

Yeah, it’s for ‘emerging professionals.’ Very exclusive.

Emerging from what? Debt?

Sharon laughed, grabbing a bag of chia seed granola and tossing it into her cart. You’re just mad because you don’t have magic pants.

I rolled my eyes. Magic pants or not, you’re still Sharon. Just don’t forget that when you’re sipping kombucha on some rooftop.

She waved me off. Please. I’m a pro at staying grounded.

Grounded? Sharon, you’re holding a twenty-dollar jar of almond butter.

She ignored me, rolling her cart toward the checkout line like she was on a parade float.

Two days later, I got a call from Sharon. Her voice was panicked, like someone had just told her brunch was canceled forever.

Trina, I need help.

I sighed, setting down my remote. What happened?

I spilled coffee on the pants.

I blinked. That’s it?

That’s it? Trina, these pants are my whole personality now! They’re my lucky charm, my mojo, my brand!

I snorted. Your brand is chaos, Sharon. Pants or no pants.

She groaned. I tried to clean them, but now they smell like vinegar and failure.

Did you follow the washing instructions?

There were instructions?

I smacked my forehead. Sharon, I swear—

Can you just come over and help me?

Fine. But if this turns into some weird pants-related crisis, I’m charging you for emotional labor.

When I arrived at Sharon’s apartment, she was holding the pants like they were a wounded bird. I could see the coffee stain, a dark blotch right on the thigh.

Look at this! It’s ruined!

I rolled my eyes. It’s not ruined. It’s just... caffeinated.

Not funny, Trina.

I sighed, grabbing the pants from her and heading to the sink. Let me handle this.

She hovered behind me like a nervous parent. Do you think they’ll survive?

They’re pants, Sharon. Not a soap opera character.

After some scrubbing and a little patience, the stain faded. I held them up triumphantly. There. Good as new.

Sharon’s face lit up like she’d just won the lottery. You’re a genius!

I smirked. I know. Now, can we agree that these pants aren’t actually magic?

She hesitated, then shrugged. Maybe not magic, but they’re still special.

I rolled my eyes, tossing the pants back to her. You’re special, Sharon. The pants are just pants.

She grinned, hugging them like they were a long-lost friend. Maybe. But they’re my pants.

And with that, she headed to her closet, leaving me to wonder how one pair of pants had managed to take over both of our lives.

A week later, Sharon called me again.

Guess what, Trina?

I groaned. Oh no. What now?

I bought the jacket.

I hung up.