My 30th birthday was of great import. It wasn't because I had reached the age of responsibility; it seems to me that the decade at which one is supposed to be all settled keeps jumping at a rate which allows me to never be held American Dream accountable. It wasn't because my vodka-and-cake hangover from the night before's fabulous party was amazingly cured by hollandaise sauce as I brunched with my mother. These things were truly part of the wonders of being 30, but they were not the Reason Why.
The Reason was the Pants. The Pants of 30.
Skirts, dresses, tops, stockings, and shoes beg me to wear them. They want to snuggle close in curvy comfort. They want to trade fashion tips and suggest accessories. Pants could care less. They have a laissez-faire attitude. Other articles of clothing take a certain pride in consistency from hem to button, from seam-to-shining-seam. They have the ability to look good on more than one person or body type.
Not Pants.
I know I am not alone. I imagine Pants has so abused you. Finding that perfect pair, the pair that make your butt look cute and your legs look long is the result of such a struggled quest that I'm somewhat surprised that home-ownership surpassed perfect pants-ownership as the aforementioned American dream.
On my 30th birthday, I found a pair of perfect pants. I can wear them for work and play. They cherish my hips and ass. They go with everything. They are Renegades in the Pants kingdom. But after nearly a full year of wearing them nearly every day I'm becoming concerned. Though still intact, the Pants of 30 are wearing thin. They still make my butt look cute, but fall off my hips an hour into wearing them. There has been a foreshadowing of holes. They're not going to make it. I will have to begin my quest again.
Pants of 31, where are you?
Posted by Ida at October 8, 2002 02:35 PM