A few years back, as T and I were getting to know one another, I mentioned that I dislike wearing pants. T immediately quoted Homer Simpson, who comes home from work and takes off his pants proclaiming, ‘Don’t you hate pants?” as he does so.
Though I realize he’s not an ideal role model, I totally understand Homer’s point of view. When it comes down to it, it’s not just that I prefer to wear skirts and dresses (though I emphatically do), it’s that I really hate wearing pants. I find them constricting, uncomfortable, and all-together unpleasant.
Some of my animosity toward pants is a function of the fact that they aren’t flattering on my body. Some of my dislike is driven by the sheer volume of hours I have to shop in order to find pants that I can bear to wear. The rest can be squarely attributed to the fact that pants are dreadfully uncomfortable when compared to skirts.
Despite years of poor relations with pants, I am still tempted by their false promises. In the midst of a long winter when I grow wary of pulling on tights each day, pants seem like they would be terrific. Evert few years, I yield to the idea of pants and after an endless search, I buy a pair. This always ends the same way: I get them home, put them on, look at myself in the mirror, recoil in horror, and return them at once. In this way, my occasional purchase of a pair of pants is rather like a hobby, albeit an utterly dysfunctional one.
As this winter drags on and I am more and more weary of dealing with winter tights, I find myself thinking about pants. Naturally, they are my fantasy pants: flattering, comfortable, and flexible enough to be worn with all my favorite clothes. My head knows that these pants do not exits. But my heart is weak and hopeful and plans to buy them in every conceivable color when I find them.
No comments:
Post a Comment