Like most women, I have faced a number of existential crises surrounding pants.
I feel like things must have been so much simpler back when women stuck strictly to dresses. Dresses are a woman’s secret weapon—if you buy the right one, you look fancy as fuck, but you feel like you’re wearing pajamas. “This old thing?” you say, coquettishly swishing the flared skirt of your beautiful cotton dress. “I am literally as comfortable as if I were wearing my old Plucky Duck Tiny Toons t-shirt from sixth grade that I still sleep in sometimes, but thanks! Also, don’t judge me for owning and wearing a Plucky Duck t-shirt.”
But dresses require shaved legs, and sometimes that just seems like an insurmountable task. And on those days, I must turn to my old nemesis: pants.
More specifically, jeans. Jeans are just such dicks about everything. One day, they’re loose and elephantine, making your butt look saggy and partially detached. The next day, those exact same jeans might inexplicably attempt to sever you in half. Jeans have no idea what they’re doing, and they are terrible at keeping you fully corralled in place. You might adjust a muffin top only to find several minutes later that three inches of your crack are exposed.
I much prefer leggings, with their forgiving elastic waistbands and butt-lifting technology, but I’m fairly positive that Obama made an amendment to the constitution banning women over the age of 35 from wearing leggings as pants, so I mostly limit my legging time to around the house or to the grocery store, where I already feel judged about the contents of my cart, so why not just go all-in?
I can’t wear leggings to work, but my jeans have gone feral and are attempting to constrict me to death so they can slowly digest me. I know there’s no shame in buying a bigger pants size (although this doesn’t really comfort me when I’m simultaneously crying and jamming cookies into my mouth three at a time), so I head to Old Navy, determined to find a pair of jeans that doesn’t want to murder me. And suddenly, I have found them:
The respectability of jeans, with the comfort of leggings. I put them on in the dressing room and it’s like wearing your favorite pair of lounge pants, except when you look down, you’re wearing jeans and not pink polyester fabric covered in monkey faces. I feel like I could do the splits in these pants and not be restricted at all, which is amazing, because I can’t come anywhere close to doing the splits, but THAT’S HOW INSPIRING THESE JEGGINGS ARE.
They only had one pair in my size, so of course I bought it, and I’m wearing my jeggings right now. I didn’t even pretend to anyone at work today that they were real jeans—I spent a good chunk of the morning approaching women I barely even knew and forcing them to watch me pull the elastic waist of the jeggings away from my body, yelling THEY’RE JEGGINGS!
I think people were impressed.
Between the jeggings, leggings and dresses, I now essentially have the wardrobe of a five-year-old, but I am not ashamed. You might be laughing at my buttonless, zipperless existence, but with my elastic waistband, I’ll have more breathing room to laugh even harder as your jeans attempt to kill you.
Plus, I’ll be able to eat more cookies. So I think that’s a win.