I Just Want Some Pants. Is That So Hard to Understand?
Warning: The following post contains gratuitous overuse of the word "ass." Read or skip accordingly.
Would someone please tell me when the women of America took a vote and decided that what we really needed to be taken seriously and to empower ourselves in the workplace was turbo-slut wear? 'Cause I must have missed that vote, and I'm more than a little annoyed about it. See, I just want some new pants. Preferably some nice, khaki-type pants, suitable for work or a casual outing. And I'd really like for those pants to actually cover my ass. I didn't think that requirement was optional, you know, for PANTS, but then I've been a little distracted lately, so that's why I'm thinking I missed the great Ass Covering Referendum of 2002.
There can be no other explanation for the fact that every pair of pants I recently tried on clung firmly to my hips, regardless of how I tried to make the waistband match my waist. Okay, let's get a couple of things straight: I am neither ancient nor obese, but I am a mom, and not interested in reliving my college years through sportswear. Nor am I interested in perfoming an impromptu impersonation of a plumber every time I bend, sit, twist, move, or breathe. And while I do appreciate the occasional cool breeze on my face and other normally exposed body parts--my posterior is neither accustomed to nor eager to feel mother nature's breath. I have never been, am not now, nor will I ever be a fashionista. So please, manufacturers of clothing, keep me in mind when you're making pants. They don't have to be fancy, they just have to perform one essential function--keep the elements away from my ass. Thanks so much. Sincerely, Big Arm Woman.
And while I'm at it, can I just mention this to our well-meaning yet ultimately deluded by Cosmopolitan Magazine co-eds? I do not ever want to see your ass. Okay? Do we have that? Why do you insist on showing it to me? I have no interest in your super-cute thong underwear. Frankly, I can't see how you wear those things, because they chafe an area that should never be chafed. Ever. And do not accuse me of being prudish or out-of-touch. This is your ASS we're talking about, not Michaelangelo's David. Come to think of it, I wouldn't want to see him doing plumber chic, either. Plus, you don't have to look at your ass. I do. You are forcing your ass on me, and frankly, it's rude, because your ass? Is not all it's cracked up to be.
As an aside, just because low riders come in a size 26 doesn't mean you should purchase and wear them in a size 26. If you purchased those low riders in a size larger than eight, you need to turn around and go home right now. Don't tell me not to look at your ass, because it's taking up the entire horizon. There is no avoiding the ass that is yours, that is hanging out, that is mocking me with its crackitude. I hate your ass. Really.
I'm also not interested in your cute little belly shirts. One in ten human beings has the body for these shirts, and the entire 10% lives in CA or NY and is employed as a model. I promise. Ditto for the lace-up front jeans, the ripped-and-held-together-with-big-safety pins jeans, the jeans with splits down the side from knee to ankle, and just about any other too-tight, too small, see-through item of apparel that you can purchase at 5-7-9 or Razzle Dazzle or any other cheap trendoid place of sartorial doom.
How are normally intelligent, active young women being deluded into purchasing glorified hooker wear that allows no movement whatsoever? There is no bending in this clothing, lest you pop a seam. Likewise, no running, sitting, or breathing hard. God forbid you sneeze-passerby will have to hand you your bra and panties while averting their eyes and dialing 911 for the fire department to come dislodge your pants from the treetops.
Listen to me. Just because you CAN be half-naked, doesn't mean you should be. This crap is not fashion-forward, it's France's revenge for no longer being a superpower. Don't give in. Give pants a chance.