This past week I found myself undergoing a life-altering change. No, I am not going through puberty; I underwent that experience last year. My change is the recent fondness I have gained for mesh shorts. In the past, I have only worn mesh shorts when partaking in athletic activities, which hasn't been the case in weeks (roughly 62 of them). Aside from athletic events, the last time I put on a pair of mesh shorts was just prior to receiving a lap dance at a Montreal strip club. I wore no supportive garment underneath, a fashion decision I highly recommend for those who frequent such provocative establishments.

However, it is not just the switch to mesh shorts that has changed my life. I have noticed that the pockets on such shorts, if present at all, are not trustworthy. Every time I go and sit down on a couch, my cell phone, wallet, Chap Stick, change, gum, crack pipe and keys fall out and slide into that crevice of oblivion — that section of the couch where everything that has ever gone missing resides. There is no doubt in my mind that Jimmy Hoffa's body is in the break room of some waste management warehouse, resting in that dreaded couch crevice.

I refuse to continue jeopardizing the safety of my objects. I refuse to risk losing my everyday necessities because some eight-year-old punk, working in a Malaysian sweatshop, can't sew a more reliable pocket. But to avoid mesh shorts altogether would be a far more destructive sacrifice; their comfort gives me a reason to live. The solution to this predicament might leave many cringing in disbelief. However, after extensive analysis, and after considering every possible option, it has become clear to me that I need to purchase a "fanny pack."

With the exception of Stephanie Hosen in my eighth grade class, who needed a place for her various insulin shots, I have never seen anyone wear a fanny pack without being publicly mocked. Even despite Stephanie's diabetes, some felt the need to openly disapprove of her unacceptable fashion statement. There was never a period in time when fanny packs were socially acceptable.

The fanny pack is more frowned upon than the Terry Schiavo Halloween costume I saw last year. Nevertheless, no one can deny its practicality. A fanny pack provides ample room for one's necessities, yet does not cause any discomfort. However, its usefulness does not completely persuade me to strap one on. The reason for my hesitation is that I know once that fanny pack secures itself to my hip, I will have surrendered any chance I've ever had of being cool. But then again, did I ever really have a chance?

Some people want to be doctors, some want to be lawyers, and others are content with just collecting their unemployment checks and re-watching the YouTube clip of Tara Reid's breast falling out. But there is one thing that everyone strives to be, and that is "cool." However, coolness is innate; it can't be taught or learned. I've had the privilege of knowing many cool people in my day, and after comparing myself to them, I have realized it would not be just a Fanny Pack that injured my reputation.

The "Cool Guy" gets dressed and sprays on that perfect amount of expensive cologne. I roll out of bed with halitosis and douse myself in Febreze. The Cool Guy looks at a girl, and says to himself, "She's coming home with me tonight." I look at a girl and say, "Take a mental picture of her, this way you don't have to masturbate to your sociology TA again." The Cool Guy scores the winning goal. I have less athletic ability than Stephen Hawking. And as the Cool Guy scratches his head and thinks about what cool activities he is going to take part in during the day. I scratch my ass and think about why I can never learn to wipe more thoroughly.

I am who I am, and I am a man in need of a fanny pack. I am never going to be the smooth-talking and desirable Brando type, and if wearing a fanny pack lets everyone know that, so be it. But I love mesh shorts, and I hate losing my possessions, and a secure pouch that resides on the side of my hip seems to be the only answer. In a sense, just being myself is perhaps the coolest I can be. Don't feel bad for me; I'm not looking for your sympathy, unless of course it is going to somehow get me laid.

Jeremy Elias ([email protected]) is a junior majoring in communications.