"Fuck. Pants," I said to my friend, with way more venom than a comment about pants deserves.
But seriously, I hate wearing pants. Pants don't care about me. Pants think I should eat more salad for lunch. Pants want me to drink less wine. Pants are always whispering in my ear, "Is your bum getting bigger? Don't you think your thighs are too fat?" If pants had their way, my love affair with bubble tea would be over.
I'm not talking about jeans. I would never say such nasty things about jeans. After two babies, jeans have done me so many favours lifting and tucking that if they called in the debt, I'd be mueling baggies of cocaine in my stomach on international flights for the rest of my life.
At least I'd get to travel.
I'm talking about trousers, the ones that hang best after I've been ill with food poisoning. Beautifully cut, perfectly draped, without a smidgen of room for beef rendang for lunch.
Why suffer when you can just wear skirts and dresses? They expand and contract over your body almost like they're breathing you in and out. Skirts and dresses highlight your best self and hide a multitude of sins, like, well, beef rendang for lunch.
Until a while ago, that's how I felt about pants. And then, one morning when I was waiting for the bus, I saw a woman walking across the road. She was a vision, long legs swathed in these gorgeous, dare I say it? Pleated. Dare I say the next thing? Tapered. Delicious loose trousers.
Pleated, tapered and loose. Sounds like the worst right? Those features are normally the perfect recipe for a big old hideous sandwich, but not in this case friends.
She was a regular kind of woman. Like me, maybe she'd had a couple of kids. And these pants made her look so damn fine.
At that moment, I quickly checked the time difference between Sydney and Toronto, and deciding it wasn't obscenely early, I messaged my friend, a trouser-lover from way back, and the only person I know who would care about this epiphany. I told her I was on the verge of conversion. My undoing? A chic pair of pleated, tapered, exquisitely draped silk pants.
It's like a divine being tugged the sleeve of my dress, handed me a pair of pants and said, "I think these would look fantastic on you. And by the way, do you feel like some bubble tea?"
In other news, sometimes I ramble about culottes. I thought they were so awful - more awful than regular pants - but I see them everywhere, and I think we could be friends.
I don't even know who I am anymore.