I never considered my pants could speak until this past fall. If I had given it some thought, I imagine they’d tell me that short girls with thick thighs should not wear skinny jeans unless they want to look like their torso is supported by two blue tree trunks. Or maybe they’d finally let me in on the reason why men’s pants are sized by waist and inseam and women are stuck with generic labels like “slim” and “tall” or worse, just a glaring solitary number, “2.” “7.” “16.” Given my horrible luck in dressing rooms and how I twitch at the sight of denim, I’d imagine my pants would tell me to just give up and live in skirts and dresses.
Last September, I put on a pair of houndstooth pants that simultaneously drowned my short legs and suffocated my waist. These pants were lying to me: the only place these slacks were an S was in the waist (the XS, S, M, L, XL system is even more depressing than the numbers, am I right?!). I clutched at monochrome cloth, desperately pulling upward in hopes of revealing my feet, which were lost among the extra fabric.
Finally, ten toes emerged. As I looked down at my lavendar nails, it hit me: these pants did not fit. Moreso than the length and the overbearing elastic that branded my skin with deep pink stripes, I was not meant to wear these pants. [Read more...]