A friend who shall remain
anonymous* wore yoga pants while running errands after a work-out. No one pointed and laughed, but she felt compelled to apologize to the community. Everyone and their grandmother (especially their grandmother) is wearing it, making yoga pants the equivalent of sweatpants in the ’90s, stirrup pants in the ’80s, and disco… Well, you get the idea.
I admit I envy her audacity. In the summertime when getting dressed up is a hassle, the devil on my shoulder suggests I should run errands in my work-out clothes: a sports bra and clingy cotton shorts, both dripping with perspiration. It would certainly give the local gossipers a work-out!
But there’s a much more insidious evil than yoga pants. (Yes, I called yoga pants evil. Go ahead, protest by putting your feet behind your head and daring me to look. You can double down-dog dare me, and it will have no effect! You may have been practicing yoga for many years, but I’ve been practicing custody of the eyes for decades. )
But I digress. The most treacherous fashion trend is the lack of belt loops. I noted this to my fashionista pal M’e when she helped me assemble a new work wardrobe. Her comment was that slacks** gave a beautiful, smooth silhouette. When I put them on, I had to agree. They fit perfectly.
However, after three months of waist-whittling workouts, I have changed my mind. My trousers slide down my hips at the most inconvenient times. I find myself doing a clutch-and-pull maneuver – or a klutzy non-dancer plie to keep them from falling farther – unless I pull the waist over my ribcage. There’s a fashion-forward concept: Grandpa Pants! I could accessorize with a Panama hat and golf shoes, perhaps a pipe, and a mustache (False, of course. One can’t grow a silvery-white ‘stache at will).
But I refuse to buy new trousers. No, that’s just what the fashion designers want. The reprehensible producers of these pernicious pants planned to profit as their patrons’ purchased new pairs of pants to prevent presenting their privates in public.
(Excuse me a moment. I read this post aloud to see how it sounded thus far, and strangely my screen is now covered in spittle. I’ll get a cloth.)
Where was I? Oh, yes. The couturier conspiracy to accumulate cash and/or to achieve crack-showing equality.
(You think I’ve gone to far with my nonsense? Nonsense! Consider the manipulation in which the subjects are offered
something so awful that they utterly refuse to consider it. Then something slightly less repugnant is offered, and the subjects clutch it to their collective bosom. Thus yoga pants were thrust upon the credulous masses after tights-as-pants broke their resistance.)
Being made of nonsense, not money, I decided to ride out this style storm. Yesterday I wore an old pair of trousers that are a bit too big, but defied gravity with the help of a belt. I will see if elastic judiciously applied at the back of the waistband can save the loopless trousers. If not, I relegate them to working in the garden, since buttocks among the autumn leaves are tres chic.
*Katie. I must give credit where shame is due.
**Yes, slacks. Welcome to grandma fashion!