Gravity
The Fine Line Between Support and Humiliation
I am the Existential Nomad, and you must understand that my wanderings are not charted on any map of terrestrial design. My odysseys unfold not across vast oceans, but within the seemingly mundane crucibles of daily life—the checkout line, the empty coffee pot, the treacherous landscape of one’s own changing waistline. For it is here, dear reader, in these small, forgotten battlefields, that the great cosmic dramas of gravity, memory, and the relentless march of entropy truly play out. The tale you are about to traverse, this grand saga of the tyrannical brown belt and the quest for its woven black leather successor, is but one dispatch from this ongoing war against the absurdity of existence, a war I am compelled to chronicle, one ill-fitting garment at a time.
The Great Un-Cinching began, as most cataclysms do, subtly. A slight, almost imperceptible slippage. A minor adjustment while waiting for the bus to come. But entropy, dear reader, is a patient and relentless beast. As I, the Existential Nomad, shed the physical baggage of a less-enlightened era, a vacuum was created. And into this vacuum, gravity, that old cosmic bully, thrust its invisible, insistent hands, seeking to divest me of my trousers at the most inopportune moments.
Problem
gravity pulls down/
the great un-cinching begins/
trousers start their fall
This brings us to the belt. Or rather, The Belt. The one I located after a quest that would have made Odysseus consider taking up a quiet life in Ithaca. I had delved into the forgotten realms of the back-closet, braved the dusty plains beneath the bed, and navigated the treacherous, tangled jungle of the Miscellaneous Box of Doom. And there, coiled like a dormant serpent, it lay: The Belt of Betrayal.
It was not merely an accessory; it was an artifact of a former self, a relic of a time when my circumference was a matter of greater... significance. And now, in my hour of need, it has revealed its true nature. The Belt is not my ally; it is the antagonist of this entire saga. Its very existence is a mockery of my progress. Its worn, brown leather whispers tales of past indulgences. Its buckle, a dull, brass square, seems to eye me with a smug, metallic glint.
Antagonist
brown leather tyrant/
the last hole offers a taunt/
a smug, brown brass gleam
Its villainy is one of passive-aggressive malevolence. In my victory, I cinched it, pulling the strap through the buckle. The prong, with agonizing slowness, passed hole after empty hole—ghosts of fittings past—until it came to rest, with a soft, final thunk, in the very last one. The Belt held my pants up, but only just. It offered not security, but a taunt. It hangs there, a loose warden, providing the illusion of support while doing the absolute minimum. It is a constant, leather reminder that while I have changed, it has not. It conspires with gravity, offering just enough friction to create a false sense of security before it inevitably allows a catastrophic droop. Each time I sit and stand, I can feel its cynical slackening, a silent, “Is that all you’ve got?”
Standoff
a loose, shifting hold/
between support and the floor/
dignity at risk
The thought of perforating its smug hide with a new, crudely wrought hole is tempting. A desperate act of defiance. Stabbing the beast to make it bend to my will. But this would be a hollow victory, a mere truce with the enemy.
No, the true path lies in the side quest, which has now, by necessity, become the main quest: The Search for the Black Leather Savior.
This is not just any other belt. This is the belt of my current reality, the one that is supposed to be my partner in this sartorial struggle. It is a superior design, a tightly braided cord of dark grey canvas, a thing of infinite adjustability. Its buckle is a simple, no-nonsense clamp. It promises no specific point of purchase, but rather a perfect, customized fit for any circumstance. It represents not a fixed past, but a flexible present.
Quest
a mental journey/
through the fog of memory/
for the woven hope
The quest for this Black Leather Savior is fraught with its own peril, a journey through the fog of memory. Where did I last see this champion of couture? Was it left behind in the Great Laundry Migration of last spring? Did it fall, unnoticed, into the abyss between the car seat and the center console, a realm from which few small items ever return?
Or, and this is the most chilling possibility, did I, in a fit of stoned-as-fuck camaraderie, lend it to a comrade in their own moment of gravitational crisis? The search requires not a physical map, but a mental one, a retracing of steps through hazy recollections and moments of profound clarity. The fate of my public dignity hangs in the balance, suspended by the thread of a memory and the hope of finding my true, Woven Black Leather ally. Until then, I remain locked in this tense standoff with the Brown Leather Tyrant, a man at war with his own waistline.