Stupid, stupid, stupid pants.

I hate pants. Let me just start off by getting that out. I hate pants. Hate. I just really really do. And my hatred has levels. For instance, jeans are high up on the Hate! list because they are constricting. But they do emphasize my assets so well, and as I love my abundant assets, I tolerate jeans. But there is *no* feeling like getting home after a long day of classes and changing out of jeans and into comfy black pajama pants that I stole from my sister. I stole them while she was having ear surgery. And she will probably never get them back. I am a horrible person, yes, but dude, if you could try on these pants! They are the closest to non-pants-pants that you can get.

Next on the list (and actually at the top) of pants I hate are my work pants. Two months ago, I had a nice pair of black pants; not entirely cute, but definitely with potential. Alas, one day, during the Dance of the Tight Pants (you know the Dance. It comes after too many “I deserve this ice cream because. . .” moments), my beloved black work pants died. With a whimper. A whimper that sounded remarkably like this: rrrrrrrrriiiipp!! Ugh. If you’ve done the Dance of the Tight Pants, you know the sound I speak of, and just. . .Ugh. And you know that the death of the pants is your fault; you and your ice-cream loving thunder thighs.

So I had to buy new work pants. And did I mention that my pants died about 30 minutes before I had to be at work? Panic! Pandemonium! Mayhem! All pantsless! I actually had to put on the aforementioned stolen black pajama bottoms (with my awful maroon button-down) and haul pajama-clad assets to Steinmart. Yes–Steinmart, whereupon I raced through aisles and aisles and rows and rows of high-waisted, pleated, elementary school teacher pants, trying to find some low-rise, unhideous, normal black pants. No such luck. And as I had to hurry, and as the saleslady was glaring at my stolen black pajama bottoms (jealous?), I grabbed the closest size ten and ran to the fitting room.

Hm. I just gave away my size on the internet. Maybe I should backspace that last bit out? Eh, who am I kidding? I have hips and thighs and assets, and our lives will all be better when I come to terms with that. But let it be said in my defense that the eights were the ones that had split, and they are now sitting in my closet and they *do* fit again. (Yes I saved them. Yes, I know they are useless. Yes, I know I can’t sew. And even if I think I could learn, I know I won’t. Yes, I realize that I’d make a horrible wife because I can’t sew. Mom? Is that you?)

So I grabbed the TENS and did the quick-change and peeked at the mirror. The mirror was. . .unkind. See, I knew in my heart I was a cute, if somewhat bootylicious, gal. The mirror said otherwise. The mirror accused me of being a pink-faced, crazy-haired, fatty fatty fat fat. I kicked the mirror. Let me tell you, fastest way to summon a salesperson: kick a something in a dressing room! I was so intimidated by her scathing look that I grabbed my stolen black pajama pants and skulked to the check out without even taking off the horrible black pants that mocked the existence of all legs everywhere.

Could it get worse? Do you know me *at all*? Are you new?? Of course it could! And did! As I had to wear the pants to work (which was in less than 8 minutes!!), I needed to wear them out of the store. In Steinmart–yes, Steinmart–the scanners have very short cords. So I had to plunk my size ten assets on the counter in order to be scanned. You heard me. They scanned my assets. The scanner-machine-counter-thing actually groaned. (Or was that me?) So there I am, trying to push my. . .whatever. . .into the saleslady’s range so that she could scan my bum. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. Truly.

What could happen next? Oh yeah! Security tags! And of course, it was on the ankle of the pants, which meant I had to plunk my foot on top of the counter in order for her to remove all security devices. Well, this whole fiasco happened during a time of. . .limited funds. I was a woman without means. I was–brokey broke broke. My black work shoes had seen better days. Which gets me onto a whole other subject: I’ve been working at this restaurant for 7 months now, and I’ve gone through 4 pairs of black shoes. Do I walk funny? I know I run like a duck, but I always thought my walk was normal. Apparently, not so much.

Anyway. My shoes at the time were being held together by duct tape, colored black with a Sharpie. And I had foam-rubber shelf paper taped to the bottoms. Why, you ask? I think a better question would be: why don’t *you* have foam-rubber shelf paper taped to the bottoms of all your shoes? What’s that? Oh, because they don’t slip and slide everywhere? Gotcha. Well, mine did. But when you work in a restaurant, you walk through some. . .questionable stuff. So my shoes were less than cleanly. They were gross. In fact, they had been banished from my apartment and made to sit outside our door. The holes in the bottoms alone were enough to condemn our restaurant into health-inspector hell. My boss actually hid me whenever the health inspector dropped by.

Okay, where was I? Oh yes. I plunked the lovely shoe on the counter, only to have the salesgirl look at me with this mixture of horror/pity/disgust/loathing. I was quickly becoming Steinmart’s–yes, Steinmart’s–favorite customer. She snipped off the anti-theft plastic as fast as she could, and then gave me the total.

$47.00. Seriously. I think they charged per inch–per inch these dumb pants went above my belly button. I realize I bought pants that my grandmother would have worn, were she alive. Shoot, she probably had worn them at some point. Or at least their pastel pink counterpart. And I realize that when you proceed past the age of 60, gravity is going to take its toll. But these pants were made to not only cover legs, but also to support any “girls” that had fallen down to belly button level. They buttoned between my belly button and breastbone. That can only serve one function: dual support, if you know what I mean.

So I had to shell out $47 I didn’t have for pants I didn’t want in order to be on time and in uniform for a job that pays $2.13/hour. How is this my life? And *how* am I still single??

That was a long time ago, 2 months. I still wear the grandma pants because I am cheap and they are actually quite comfortable. They are too big now, and the stupid zipper broke, but a safety pin and my apron hid all of that business. Sure, they make my thighs look like they are going to take over Texas (everything is bigger in Texas, right?), but they were $47, and I’ll be cheesed if I’m going to toss them before I wear every single dollar out of them.

So yeah, they are number one on the Worst Pants Ever list. And it speaks volumes about me that my second-favorite part of my day is when I can finally get into bed, where I don’t have to wear pants. It isn’t unconventional or weird to not wear pants in bed. It is encouraged in some circles, even required! I have 6 different pairs of pajama pants (2 velour J-Lo style, 2 from Old Navy, 1 with daisies, and 1 stolen), true, but those are only for wearing when I am home for more than 15 minutes at a time, not for sleeping. If I am going to be home for at least 20 minutes, off go the jeans or work pants, and on come the “comfies,” as my mother calls them. I am my mother’s daughter. She’s the same. She gets home from work and before she even pours her wine (and if you knew my family, you’d know how the order of her evening speaks volumes about our hatred of pants) she’s putting on her “comfies.”

I’ve admitted a lot in this entry. I writing to say that I’m not ashamed. I feel freed, cleansed if you will. My name is Alida. I don’t wear pants if I can help it.

You know, I think the world would be a lot better if it were pants-optional. We’d all be a lot happier, pantsless. I know I am.