Ass PantsBought myself some pants last night. I love these pants. They are black, lightweight, festooned with thousands of zippers and neat little pockets. Really cute pants. Joyful pants. Pants that should look righteous with my black, silver-beaded tank, or even my new green t-shirt featuring a bunny picking his nose and captioned “I HATE EVERYTHING..” The pants should look wild yet chic with my new obnoxiously huge Italian horn necklace and delicious three-inch-high cork-heeled, bronze-leathered-instep wedges. Those pants should look smashing with my “bug-eye” rose-tinted shades and the awesome silvery, slouchy bag I got for half price.
Notice I used the word “should” throughout.
The pants are not my friend, ladies and gentlemen. The pants hate me and my generous hips. They mock the fact I bore four children, that I am over the age of twenty. They chuckle and twitter when I, refusing to accept the image I see before me in the mirror, suck in my tummy in the hopes that the conspicuous Tony Sopranoesque meatball sub-size roll will simply go away if I stand at the right angle. Oh, and how they laugh when I turn to check the crackage (ladies, you know what I’m talking about), and am horrified that not only is there an all too visible crack, one that would show even if I wore a floor-length sari, but that the whole world, should I wear these pants, would know I am indeed a natural blonde.
The “waistband” sets exactly one inch above my pubic area. One inch.
The zipper is so short, I don’t know why the designer even bothered.
That’ll teach me to buy pants. Silly Ms. Lori, buying pants as if it were still possible in this day and age to find them with a fucking normal waist to crotch ratio.
Still. I really, really love those pants.
Perhaps I will frame them and display the hateful, beautiful bastards on my bedroom wall. I can gaze longingly at them, me in my burka, and dream…