It would be weird if I didn’t address the unexpected turn this post is taking me in light of the past year of very serious posts. But that’s life isn’t it? An odd mixture of loss, self-actualization and questionable clothing choices.
Truly, I didn’t realize that I felt anything about leggings (or as I prefer to call them “stretchy pants” in my very poor Nacho Libre accent) until one of my Face Book friends started posting multiple articles about the inherent evils of the pant. Initially it made me roll my eyes and then frown in concentration, then raise a perfectly arched eyebrow and BLAM. I found I had an opinion about stretchy pants. Did not see that coming. So here it is, My Super Valid Opinion: If people want to walk around wearing really tight, possibly floral, nylon pants that cling to every curve and crevice, I kind of feel that’s their business. Literally their business. Too far? Maybe, but I do see the appeal of wearing such a pant: A) they’re insanely comfortable B) they’re inexpensive and C) you can do impromptu lunges at work, in line at the grocery store, at the DMV, wherever. Convenient. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought, “I could really go for some squats right now if only these jeans weren’t so restrictive.” Plus, unanticipated bonus: Snow pants slide right on over leggings. No bunching. No bunching at all!
I’m not saying I condone going commando in a pair of sheer tights, as the more radical anti-legonians claim is happening. That’s unsanitary and upsetting in ways I don’t want to write about. But I have seen no evidence that this vile accusation is even a real thing. Maybe in Florida. But the majority of stretchy-pant wearers I happen upon are harmless, comfort-loving women trying to look skinnier. I, for one, may not feel comfortable tucking a top into a pair of leggings and going out on the town, but who am I to criticize? I’m a thirty-three year old woman who knowingly sought out, purchased, and unapologetically wears a pair of very sophisticated lady-overalls. What of it?
The real issue is that women are insecure freaks. Take anything from shoes to career choices, to mothering styles to matters of health and you will find an insecure woman raging against something obstructing the view from her fragile self-esteem paradigm. And it doesn’t matter what she looks like, or how she dresses, how talented she is, or how much she has accomplished in her life. An insecure woman is trouble (see every wicked queen ever). Don’t be that woman.
I get it, serotonin-deficient ladies. It can be discouraging living in the modern world where every standard is not only impossibly high, but constantly displayed in all its filtered glory. I have a friend on Instagram who travels the world taking incredible pictures that make me question all my life choices. Another friend posts pictures of the dream home she currently LIVES IN. Another posts pictures of marathons she runs. Another posts pictures wearing freaking awesome clothes for her fashion blog. Another of her freaking awesome face. I mean, I want that! I want to travel and live in my dream home and run marathons in rad clothing and look like Scarlet Johansson. And I could really work myself up into feeling like I hate all the Instagram pictures in the whole world if I focused on making comparisons. But I try not to. Because at the end of the day, when I’m not PMSing, I like myself. Even if liking myself does mean accepting that I look like an older version of the unattractive girl on Goonies. That is the price, my friends. And I fully accept that with a lot of imagination and spray painted yard sale furniture, my tract house is going to have to suffice as my “dream home”. Literally a place where I dream. On that note it is also my “opera home” because it is where I perform opera when Andy is not home. And I sound amazing. I don’t run marathons or have awesome clothes so I post pictures of my cat. He is a very attractive cat. People probably get super jealous of me. I would apologize, but I can’t help it if my cat is handsome. Don’t expect a Hallmark card is all I’m saying. Though all signs point to me being hella lame, (like how I use the word “hella” on occasion) I like myself anyway. And I want other women to like themselves too. Not because I’m nice. But because women who like themselves don’t resent and/or attempt to destroy the contentment of others. And because my life would be so much easier if I wasn’t constantly having to come up with new things I’m not good at, ways I dislike my body, or pretending Nicholas Sparks doesn’t make me want to vomit into a soda bottle just to make insecure women not hate me. Its effing exhausting.
Anyways, we should all feel fortunate that there is still no law stating we must adhere to current fashion codes. I don’t particularly care for the deep V neck, based on my personal preference that men look at my face when I speak. But if other ladies (my daughters excluded) want to rock the deep V to feel beautiful, that does not effect me at all. More cleavage power to them. I also have an inexplicable aversion to wearing polos but rock them as you will, I remain unaffected. Likewise, if I’ve been feeling meh, and sporting a pair of totally opaque solid black stretchy pants under an over-sized sweatshirt makes me feel at once stylish, comfortable, free to jog at intervals AND happy with the fantastically flat butt God has given me, don’t hate. The day a pair of pants ruins my life and the lives of those around me I will concede to the evils of the legging. I stand warned. But until that day I say TAKE IT DOWN a notch with the thinly veiled insecurity rants, ladies. We all like different things. Sweater capes are not for everyone and that’s OK. Leggings do not spell End of Days.
However, on the off chance that I’m wrong, and the wide acceptance of the legging is a sign of impending apocalyptic doom, this hardly seems the time to fret about whether men can or cannot control themselves around refashioned eighties work-out clothes. Have you seen The Walking Dead? Stock up on toilet paper and batteries yo! Maybe take stock of your life and how grateful you are to have fresh vegetables and running water. Time to take a good, honest gander in the mirror, repeating slowly that you will allow others to wear what they will sans sour grapes. And then make sure you put leggings in your 72 hour kit because anything more cumbersome may result in your face being eaten by once-insecure zombies in maxi skirts and boot cut denim.