My whole life has been a pants filled struggle. I was always tall for my age, and then I graduated to just plain taller than average. This meant that I was the one who always wore "floods". I was the one who's jeans did not drag on the ground in highschool. I never had anything trail off behind me. My mother would always take down the hem of my pants, hang them to dry, and add lace to the ends to lengthen them. Tres chic.
I was once told by a Russian woman in a Gap change room that "If you can do them up, they are not too tight." Euphoric, I bought them - a pair of low rise skinny jeans, with the assurance that by the time I left, they would stretch enough to let me sit down for the drive home. They did. I had to move the seat all the way back, and halfway home, my bottom slid neatly out of the waistband like a peeled egg, and stuck to the leather seat. But I did look fabulous standing around, holding my breath.
Exercise pants were never something that I wore around the house. The arrival of LuLu Lemon did not do anything to change my life. I was too cheap to really invest in the rage. I did one year buy a fabulous pair of five dollar silk wrap around pants at the Vancouver Folk Festival. They were rose silk with gold thread. I felt like a Persian princess. Thrilled with myself, I floated around in them, doing my errands and walking the summer streets in a daze of effortless beauty. I stopped in to say hello to my friend Nancy, and her grown daughter kindly pointed out to me that they gave me very pronounced Camel Toe.
A few years ago, my friend Marg told me about the expression "Muffin Top". It was the funniest thing we had ever heard. All those misguided girls pouring out of the tops of their jeans, kidneys praying for release. This muffin top trend eventually led to a craze in muffin top liposuction. Surgery for pants? I think not. Sensibly, as girls, we wore pants that zipped up to our navels, and used coathangers while lying on the bed to do them up.
I have a pair of work pants. I garden in them. They are (or used to be) grey-blue, they zip off at the knee for when it's hot, they have lots of pockets, and most importantly, they have an eight inch zip, and some elastic in the waist. I can drive in them, bend over in them without risking exposure, and my Camel's toe has deserted me. They also have smatterings of tar, creasote and dirt that won't wash out of the knees. Bliss.
Eventually I will be brave enough to choose pants for ease and comfort. My Great Aunt had a closet full of colorful permanent press slacks with elastic waists. These she wore with an array of loose fitting shirts, blouses and cardigans. She looked smart. Hell, she was smart. At the other end of the spectrum, my teenaged daughter only wears "boy pants". She has since she was two. My mother sewed her own pants, and didn't wear jeans until she was thirty five. When was I led astray?
I have worn them all. Harem pants, pedal pushers lovingly sewn by my mother, hand me downs, jodpurs, skinny jeans, trousers, shorts, capris, culottes, bloomers, overalls, zip offs, (my favorite), cargo pants, boot cut, bell bottomed, wide legged, woolen and ski pants. I think I even wore Leiderhosen once. My friend Heather just came home with a pair of Jeggings, and I still am not quite sure what they are. For now, I will stick to the bad pants in my cupboard, and undo them when comfort is required. I will only try on things after eating a full meal. I will not be talked into tight skinny jeans by saleswomen who have cut off the circulation to their brains by wearing pants three sizes too small for them. I will check for Camel Toe before I float out of the house. I will choose comfort over style. I will maybe even try my hand at a little sewing. I will leave my years of bad pants behind me. Or at least leave it as far as my behind.
