There are pants, and then there are Michael’s pants.

I’m an ungainly Gen Xer. I accept that. Still, at Bealls recently I tried on a black Marc Anthony long-sleeved slim-fit shirt … just to, you know, see. After I nearly ripped the thing trying to pull it on, I saw. It wasn’t pretty. My wife looked at me as I came out of the dressing room — my arms locked in scarecrow-like positions by my sides — and shook her head as she subdued a laugh. A guy like me simply doesn’t belong in something like that. It doesn’t work anymore. Maybe it never did. That kind of clothing is made for toothpicks who haven’t yet had the misfortune of rounding out with age.

But my colleague, Michael, is another story. He’s the quintessential millennial. It starts up top with the leavened quiff hairstyle, then the square jaw beset with the subtlest hint of facial hair, then the understated plaid button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His leather belt is secured at the front by some piece of rock climbing gear you’d find at REI. The ensemble finishes down low with a pair of glorious pants. But to call them pants is patently wrong. They’re way more than pants. They’re an expression, a statement … an identity! They’re as much a part of Michael as his epiglottis, duodenum or Loop of Henle. They’re slim and flattening; and at once both casual and professional, made from a material that Tony Stark grew in his secret penthouse lab. Solomon himself couldn’t have spun a finer fabric.

Michael looks like he’d be equally comfortable in his pants lounging in first class, delivering a high-stakes corporate presentation, fighting in a war, painting his living room, or shooting hoops. It’s not fair that he wears a different pair every day to work, each a different color, but each conveying all of his unmistakable cool. It’s as if he’s rubbing it in, gloating in all his millennial comfort and security. His pants scream tauntingly to me, “You want a pair of these, don’t you?” Oh sweet millennial insouciant youth.

Pants like Michael’s didn’t exist when I was his age. The closest we got were parachute pants, Ocean Pacific drawstring surf pants, or dungarees. (Dungarees? Is that even still a word?)

As a Gen Xer, I lack the vocabulary to describe Michael’s pants appropriately. Slim traveler’s pants, maybe? Athleisure pants? Guru pants? It’s like trying to describe the Mona Lisa. Some things defy description. You just appreciate them and recognize that they exist on a higher plane than you. It’s like that with Michael’s pants.

To be fair, Michael doesn’t wear his pants on his sleeve. To him, they’re probably just comfortable pants. No big deal. He puts them on each morning one leg at a time like the rest of us and probably thinks nothing of them after that. It’s just that when his pants are on, he becomes a Banana Republic ad.

Not long ago, I worked up the courage to ask Michael about his pants. And like his pants, I kept things casual and professional as I approached him. I didn’t want to give away just how enamored I was with his pants because, well, that would just be weird. (About as weird as posting about it on my blog!)

“Hey, Michael,” I began as we sat next to each other at a corporate boardroom meeting. I pretended to be doing something on my phone to downplay the moment. “I’ve been looking for a pair of pants like yours. Mind telling me where you got them? They look very comfortable.” I didn’t make eye contact with him so I could try to convey just how NOT a big deal this actually was. Yet, I felt like I was asking the Prom Queen out on a date. Why was I suddenly so nervous? My mind was ready to imprint his answer on my frontal lobe so I could buy some pants online the moment I got back to my desk, who cares how much they cost! I was sitting on the edge of my seat. One of my legs was bouncing beneath the table. Tell me where you got those pants!

“These pants?” Michael replied with millennial indifference. “I don’t know. I forget where I got them. Online maybe? Some site, probably?” The upward inflection in his voice indicated that perhaps it was none of my business where he got his majestic pants. He engaged his phone, likely in response to one of the billion social media notifications he gets every minute as a millennial. Something he posted was probably trending. I bet it was something about his pants. And I bet the likes were streaming in.

“Ah, okay, cool, thanks.” I sank in my seat and starting nibbling the inside of my cheek. I shouldn’t have said anything to him about his pants. I had gone too far. I had flown too close to the sun and now my wings were melting. The crash against the hard Earth was coming fast.

The meeting began and I was no further forward in acquiring a pair of those magnificent pants. I stared ahead at the wall across the table, ignoring the meeting completely and privately stewing in Michael’s nonchalant rejection. How dare he not recognize my profound attraction to his pants, then brush me aside like an annoyance. Why should he have all the good pants? Did he not want me to have pants like his? Maybe that was it. Maybe he was thinking, Dude, these are my pants, get your own pants.

His response couldn’t have cut me any deeper. More than knowing where he got his pants, I was after his approval … his affirmation bro-to-bro that, yeah, I should get a pair because I could still pull it off. There was trendy left in me yet! He could have said something like, “Oh man, these are the best pants! You should get some. You’ll love them. It’s like wearing a pair of dreams. I’ll text you where I got them.” But he didn’t say that. He instead said the opposite.

Fast forward a few weeks. I told my friend and coworker, Lauren, another millennial, just how smitten I was with Michael’s pants. I had to tell somebody! Talking about my emotions helps me process them, and I knew I could trust Lauren with the truth. With Machiavellian shrewdness, I was working another angle, now enlisting an accomplice who could track down for me where Michael got his pants. I described Michael’s pants to Lauren with Shakespearean eloquence. Lauren admitted that they were indeed nice pants. How could she not? I begged her: “Can you, you know, maybe talk to Michael and find out where he gets his pants? I didn’t get very far when I asked him directly. It was almost like….”

“Almost like what?” Lauren replied, leaning in, her concerned eyes large and round. “Tell me.”

I could sense the tears welling in my eyes. “Well, almost like he didn’t want to tell me. Like because maybe he doesn’t want me to have some.” I shielded my eyes with my hand.

Lauren is a sweet and gentle soul who wants nothing more than to please people and make them happy. She’s a peacemaker who would have made the Montagues and Capulets sit down to a Sunday barbecue together and toast their friendship with ale and mead. But the way her eyes darted back and forth at my desperate plea told me I was sending her on an uncomfortable mission — a fool’s errand — one she would run from if she could. I held my breath while awaiting her reply.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” she finally said, with a hint of consternation.

I exhaled enough relief to fill a dirigible. “Thank you. Please text me the moment you learn anything.”

“I will, I promise.”

Lauren, I knew, would not fail. Michael would undoubtedly be flattered by her request to know where he gets his pants, and he’d spill everything once she seduced him with her disarming charm. I would have those pants soon! I pictured myself wearing them to work, on hikes, shopping, you name it. And in all my visions of me in those pants I was smiling the smile of a slim man 15 years younger, full of vigor and promise, ready to engage the world.

An hour later I received a text from Lauren. She apologized to me because she had fumbled her assignment and disclosed to Michael that it was me who wanted to know where he got his pants! No! NO! She relayed to me only this: “Michael says he thinks he remembers you asking about his pants a while ago, but still can’t remember where he got them. Sorry.”

And with that second and final defeat, I had to accept the fact that Michael indeed wears the pants in our relationship.

Disclaimer: Michael is a good friend. He’s a great colleague and a great guy; the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back. But I’ll take the pants instead. Congrats on the twins, buddy!

Lauren is one of my favorite people. We have laughed at length over this story.

Both Michael and Lauren have been great sports.