Does any garment speak more accurately to the principles of a business casual dress code better than khakis do?
I think not.
In my own, diminutive effort to debunk the universal supposition that a. khakis are for men and b. are best when worn on Summer Fridays, I bought a pair. To be fair, I’d initially set out to find them because my partner-in-sex told me he wanted khakis. Why? To dress more appropriately his age. (What does this mean, you wonder? Well, evidently, for a 28-year-old guy from the outside, 76-year-old gentleman from the inside, quite simply that his internal clock wants his exterior to catch the hell up.)
He works an office job that requires suits and therefore leaves only weekends for recreational pant wearing. That any man should elect to wear khakis on the golden days of sartorial freedom brings up another issue — particularly when said man is 28. 28! Distressed denim, dirty t-shirts, flannel, plaid, corduroy, you name it — he should try it. So why the khakis? Why the imminent weekend half-zip? Why me?
When he asked where I stood on the topic of khakis, I told him about 300 miles north, which made coming home the following Saturday evening with a new pair for myself awkward as it meant I was a. a hypocrite, b. a weirdo. Frankly, I’d gone to Acne in pursuit of a happy medium — a respite for suit-wearing oddballs wanting to appear at least somewhat cool, but as I moseyed over The Great Wall of Pants, there they were.
I pulled a pair from its compartment, tilted my head to the left as I (and Golden Retrievers) do when trying to understand something that otherwise confounds me, and as quickly as I could forget his name, I forewent my husband’s request and tried on the pants for myself. The result was equal parts high waist and slouch that made me feel much more like Jenna Lyons, or Katharine Hepburn than the incipiently purported off-duty maritime lawyer. Of course, they would only work as well as I worked them which is precisely where a fancy-ass tweed jacket (Marc Jacobs, Yoox), off set by a Uniqlo-branded flannel plaid and some glittery neck shit (Dannijo) + shoe shit (Lube-outin — get it? Get it?) comes into play.
That, and I’m still hung up on my new favorite thought — that when they say “She wears the pants,” they should mean it.
Finally, just one question: would you wear this to a holiday party?
How about now?