It’s official: I hate pants.
Last week contained a long stretch of subzero days. So did the week before. Heeeey, week before that, too. (And it’s getting kinda OLD, Minnesota, any chance you could knock it the eff off?) I don’t have far to walk in the bitter, biting, soul-disintegrating cold, but after a certain number of snot-freezing days in a row, I give up. I tire of dealing with the freezing knees and breeze-tickled ladyparts that come part and parcel with winter skirt wearage. After a certain number of snot-freezers in a row, I will resort to pants. Silk long underwear and heavy duty pants-pants.
Now my pants wardrobe is decent but – at this point – underutilized. Within the past year I finally accepted that a girl with my figure just plain looks better in skirts, and I’ve seldom looked back. Therefore, pants have languished. Many of my pairs are fairly floppy widelegs that do poorly in wet, snowy conditions and must only be worn during the five dry, warm days we get each fall/spring. A few pairs fit only on bloat-free days, and several are in outlandish colors that work very occasionally. Just not a lot of pants-y outfits being constructed in my world.
So back to last week, right? Defeated by seemingly endless subzeros, I decided to haul out my go-to cold weather pants: A pair of super heavy black twill slacks purchased at the Gap last year. Slapped on the longjohns and yanked on the pants … only to discover that the dry cleaner had shrunk them a bit. In both length AND girth. Swell! Futzed with the top half of an already annoying outfit for several minutes before settling on some slightly awkwardly layered v-necks and a shawl, and trundling out the door.
Friends, I looked awful.
My previously smooth acrylic shawl began to pill and look moth-eaten by noon. As its static field charged to epic proportions, it also became a magnet for shed hairs and miscellaneous office lint. My bottom-layer-shirt had long sleeves and top-layer-shirt had three-quarter sleeves, which normally looks kinda cute and quirky … but in this case just looked like an amateurish mistake. Even my hair got in on the fun, wiggling free from its ponytail and sprouting, Medusa-like, from my scalp.
But the pants. The pants were the miserable main event.
Those evil pants squooze my belly, creating unsightly muffintop that even my pilly shawl could not disguise. And since the waistband on my long underwear tends to creep northward throughout the day, I was occasionally treated to DUAL muffintop from the waistbands of both undies and regular pants working in concert. Plus the pants were now too short to be slacks and too long to be crops … so they just looked wrong. There was much disgruntled sighing, tugging at cloth, and displeased scowling.
And YES, I was PMSing at the time, so there were angry hormones involved. But still! The whole experience reminded me that I am just not a pants person. I will wear them occasionally, and feel pretty comfortable kicking it in my jeans on the weekend, but generally speaking I am all about the skirts. Pants – clothing originally designed to fit MAN ASS – just won’t work for me, no matter how many lady-accommodations have been made in recent redesigns. Skirts are for me. I look smashing in skirts, and sub-par in pants. And I will deal with freezing knees for the remainder of the winter to avoid feeling as uncomfy, frumpy, and grumpy as I did during last week’s pants fiasco.
Images courtesy Banana Republic.