What the Heck is Going On with Pants?
I’m really confused about the state of pants.
I’m confused about pants, lately.
My mom got me a pair of pants for Christmas. I liked them, when I first took them out of the box: skinny, light-washed.
Then I tried putting them on. I’m used to pants being tight, but these were tight. Like, my vision darkened as all of my blood rushed to the upper half of my body. Then my feet went numb.
These pants were in my size, by the way. The waist fit. The rest of them, however, felt like how I imagine it feels to be crushed alive within an anaconda.
And the zipper. I’ve never seen a zipper that required more than a second to zip up. But it just kept going and going, all the way up to my chest. I was actually worried it would catch on my bra if I bent over at any point during the day.
(How, exactly, would I smoothly detach my pants from my bra during the day, supposing I bent over multiple times a day?)
So I went to Macy’s to exchange the pants. I actually did need new pants. In the store, there was no particular “pants” section. Macy’s organizes their women’s section into various brand forests, within which you must locate the pants associated with that particular brand.
I went to the dressing room with pants scavenged from various brand forests. They were all different sizes, because all of the pants were lying in haphazard piles, impossible to sift through with the one arm you have free.
The fancy, expensive pants from Calvin Klein hung off me in strange places. They also puffed around the ankles — I don’t mean a flare. Just sort of puffy, as if the vision was a “distorted ankle” look.
There was an array of “super skinny” and “perfect skinny” pants. These empowered me to re-experience my own birth, to a certain extent, as I was forced to squeeze into passages much too small for me, crying.
All of the waistlines hung slack off my belly button, by the way. Feeling like my legs were being crushed into flesh-diamonds was apparently the intended experience.
(Is it because I run? Are these “skinny” pants intended to punish thighs with muscle tone?)
The pants that fit well came down past my ankles, cascading over my feet like footsie pajamas. Would I be able to fit my new foot sleeves into my boots, I wondered?
No. No, I confirmed.
At last I settled on a pair of light-washed Levis. I like the commercials for Levis, which show young beautiful people running through fields. I could run through fields, I thought, putting on the pants.
They fit well around my waist, and flattered the rest of me without inflicting strangulation. They were also the only light-washed jeans without holes in the knees. I’m not sure why, but designers of pants assume when you buy a lighter wash, you’re one of those people who likes holes in the knees.
The only issue with these pants is they stop halfway down my ankle. I’m seeing a lot of other women suffering through this with me. What’s going on? Why are pants suddenly intruding on shirt territory, only to stop short where they’re needed?
Showing your ankles is cool in spring or fall, but it’s January and most of the time I can’t feel my face.
So I have to wear high socks with the pants, to ensure coverage. Gap insurance. All of my socks are colorful and striped, which seemed fine when pants were into covering my ankles.
I’m thinking about getting one pair of pants personally tailored and just wearing those all the time.
What’s going on with pants? Please, someone. Explain.