Secret Cargo

Recently I committed to buying all my clothes secondhand. I was inspired by a friend - and years of disappointing online shopping - to focus my efforts on hauls that are kinder to the environment.

That, and I’m cash poor.

My pledge comes ahead of Earth Day (next Saturday). Unfortunately, it was also timed right before my company offsite. In two weeks, I will be spending three days with all of my coworkers, and I desperately want to look cool.

And so the hunt began.

I’ve specifically been searching for cargo pants. You know the ones: light, parachute-style, perfect for effortless spring ‘fits and reliving my childhood.

As a kid, I didn’t have the proportions to look good in pants with side pockets. I had short legs, a soft midsection, and - not that it matters for this story - a huge overbite. I remember being on the verge of adult sizes, forcing my mom to let me try on the boy's carpenter pants at Northern Getaway.

I told myself they were cool, but, if we’re being honest, no eight-year-old looked good in 2003.

In fact, I don’t think I got a handle on my looks until high school, if not later. I distinctly remember being nominated “best hair” and “most fashionable” as a joke in a middle school class. I still cringe when I think back to tanking the voters with total sincerity.

It was only when I received the “most changed” superlative at graduation that I realized I had been the butt of the joke.

Gossip, generally, was something that evaded my teen life. I knew people talked - especially when I started dating - but the juiciest stories flew past my locker without my noticing. Instead, my friends and I talked about fantasy novels, foreign horror films, and indie rock stars.

You know, sophisticated stuff.

In retrospect, I had been naive. Former classmates I’ve run into in adulthood have shared stories that make me wonder if we actually went to the same school. So-and-so was addicted to pills. You-know-who used to touch other boys in the locker room. That girl from gym class? She sold blowjobs at the ravine.

It turns out I was so focused on consuming the coolest content that I became a loser anyway.

Dramatic classroom irony.

Twenty years and a set of braces later, I’m ready to try on the fashion trends and gossip that I couldn’t pull off in school.

My social media timeline is a parade of opinions on Love is Blind, Taylor Swift’s breakup, and who is wearing what to Coachella. I scroll through drama endlessly, not particularly caring if it’s a good use of time.

It’s nice, for a change, to feel in the know.

My favourite secrets are the ones I hear from regular people. On Toronto streets, everyone assumes anonymity and talks loudly about their scandals. Besides thrifting, eavesdropping is my favourite pastime.

Luckily, I can feed two birds with one scone.

On my shopping adventures, I’ve learnt that gossip is not a type of information: It’s a tone of voice. Gossip is the conspiratorial way someone loops you into a private bit of intel, no matter if it’s juicy or not. My ears perk up whenever a conversation starts with “Did you hear?” or “You’ll never guess.”

Anything presented in straight facts is not nearly as enticing.

In the last week, I’ve listened in on a pregnancy scare, a girl who may or may not have made out with a classmate she reportedly thinks is ugly, a selfish friend using her birthday to divide a group chat, and a cheating ex who’s drinking too much on Instagram stories.

Thrift store after thrift store, I’ve collected great gossip, but no cargo pants.

Secondhand stores are their own reservoirs of secrets. Every item has a past.

Sometimes, I peruse an online auction website for fun. It’s filled with family members cleaning out their deceased loved ones’ homes. What’s left behind is fascinating: An eighty-piece collection of ceramic bunnies, a series of hand-painted portraits (subjects unknown), and a vintage trunk listed as “heavy and locked. We lost the key, so selling as is.”

The intrigue is all-consuming.

The thing about thrifting is that you never know what you’ll find. You can’t go in with a shopping list, because the store (or auction) will tell you what you need to buy. No one, for instance, is looking for a locked mystery trunk. It’s just something that calls to you.

As such, being a secondhand shopper requires patience. I was searching for the newest, trendiest cargo pants in piles of discarded clothes. And, despite finding other amazing pieces, I was getting frustrated.

In a moment of weakness, I found myself online shopping at Garage - the Canadian mall staple of elementary school. It wouldn’t be so bad, I thought, to treat myself.

With a full cart and credit card in hand, I forced myself to go try the pants on in person. It was, admittedly, a weak attempt to justify breaking my promise. I told myself I would only buy them if they were perfect, and I rationalized that getting them in-store negated the delivery packaging. We all make sacrifices for fashion.

On the way to the Eaton Centre, a gaggle of stoned teens jostled onto the streetcar. I noticed one girl was wearing the same cargo pants I was looking for and suddenly felt a million years old. My horror only grew when the group proceeded to make jokes about ejaculating and continuously called each other “retards.” One particularly loud boy kept singing Last Resort by Papa Roach, and I was transported to the worst parts of the 2000s.

I got off the streetcar two stops later and walked home, vowing to never step foot in Garage or eavesdrop on teenagers again. Who cares about trends anyway?

The story really should end there, but on Friday I popped into another Value Village just because. Immediately, a pair of green worker pants called to me. They were high-rise and slightly more conservative than what I’d seen online. Likely more age-appropriate, too.

The tags were still on, and I already knew their story: An online order gone wrong. I imagined another millennial woman realizing that this might not be the trend for her.

I immediately bought them. Despite my rude awakening on the streetcar, I’ve been wearing my new cargo pants all weekend. I feel as cool as I thought I would, and I’ve been collecting even more gossip in my many many side pockets.

Hopefully my coworkers like them….

Circling the Block