Things haven’t exactly been going great for me right now. I’ve hit the age where, when you tell people you’re single, they no longer exclaim, “Let me set you up!” and instead merely return a solemn, concerned glance. I spend the bulk of my days sending out little emails with phrases like “circle back” and “action items” until I see my boss’s Slack icon go dark for the evening. Also, the rosemary plant on my windowsill just died.

Look, I’m not asking for pity; I am merely stating some facts! And don’t feel too bad for me—life hasn’t been all bad.

For instance, I recently purchased some new loafers from a clothing brand with a quasi-French name I cannot fully pronounce. That cheered me up. Then, I bought a designer bucket hat I saw in a paparazzi photo of Jonah Hill getting an iced coffee. Both purchases put the demons at bay for a moment, giving my brain a boost of serotonin one can only get from furiously refreshing USPS tracking numbers. But lately, I feel like I need to do something bigger, something even more drastic, something life-changing.

I want to buy this one pair of expensive pants. I’m reasonably sure these new pants would really turn things around for me. Is it crazy to think that an act of consumerism would change my life? Stick with me here for a minute.

First, this is not just any pair of pants. I’m talking about pants that are actually called “trousers” and cost $480. The kind with product descriptions that mention “dropped inseam” and “loose-fit tapered leg.” The kind made by a Japanese designer with an incredibly cool name who gets profiled in the New York Times Style Magazine every seven years with an opening paragraph that waxes poetic about architecture or spirtuality or the first time they saw a frog as a child. These are like the pants that Harry Styles wears, and from what I can see, his life seems to be going pretty okay.

The pants would look so great paired with a slouchy tucked-in tee that I’d practically spring out of bed in the morning, just to see how stylish I looked in the mirror, instead of hitting the snooze button eleven times while aimlessly scrolling on my phone and reassuring myself I’ll definitely wake up early and do yoga tomorrow.

With these pants in my closet, I just know that every friend, colleague, and acquaintance would always text or email me first, eliminating the omnipresent feeling that I am bugging someone. And they’d all use just the right number of exclamation points. (Enough, so I could sense they were in an upbeat mood, but not so many that I would think they were being passive-aggressive.)

I bet that my date last week would have complimented my pants instead of insisting that we split the bill before I even sat down. Without these pants, I’m stuck in a constant cycle of trying to find a photo for my dating app profile where the bags under my eyes are not too noticeable.

Strangers in coffee spots would see the pants and likely mistake me for an art dealer or a curator. (“Excuse me, sir, what do you think about NFTs?” they’d ask.) My two crushes (IRL and Internet, respectively) would leave fire emoji comments whenever I post a selfie (in the pants, of course) to my Instagram Stories.

I’d see other well-dressed men out in the wild, with equally stylish trousers on, and we’d give each other a nod, the way I imagine owners of vintage sports cars do when they spot another out on the road.

With these pants in my closet, I’d probably be able to finish a whole bag of baby arugula before it goes bad.

Now, you may ask: Isn’t your time and money better spent working on yourself instead of shopping? Therapy can’t be cropped in such a way to highlight the fabulous shoes I have on. Introspective thinking doesn’t come with neat pleats. I’m sure that these expensive pants will resolve this sense of discontent in a way that only fashion can.

Oh, fuck. The pants just sold out in my size before I could add them to the cart. Damn. Maybe this indigo chore jacket will change my life instead…