The Official Pants PSA: Don’t. Wear. Them

Consider this a call to action


I know.

I know.

You know.

I know.

One more weather lament and I am officially stepping up to a plate that will indubitably designate me Writer With the Worst Opening Paragraphs of All Time. You know, David Rakoff once said that good stories happen to those who can tell them and every time I start a story with a comment about how paradoxically obtusely and acutely the weather is fucking me up, I wonder if that means a good story can never happen to me.

Can a good story happen to anyone who lives among the climatic inconsistencies of this metropolis? Is that question right now an attempt to soften the blow of my own handicaps by trying to stuff under my umbrella-of-disabilities the rest of our town’s citizens? Most importantly, though, where is Amelia, the Carrie Bradshaw responder extraordinaire to answer my questions when I need her?

Regardless, my point is this: if it won’t happen naturally, I will make it happen the best way I know how — through clothes. Or a lack thereof. You may remember that time I vaguely alluded to a future that did not include pants in 2013, you may not. But in 2016, I am pretty — nay, definitely — sure the future is here and behold:






And a good place to start broadcasting that message is right where the sun is not used to shining, with this striped cotton thing, replete with waist ruffle. It makes having a bad day seem like an impossibility and breeds the kind of fun you thought only sitting on a beach could. Dave Matthews Band was almost on to something when they sang, “Turns out not where but who you’re with that really matters,” but the reality is, yes — the not where part is true — but it’s what you’re wearing that really matters.

Do not, however, DO NOT bikini wax. Or do, whatever.

Harvey Faircloth knickers, Chanel sandals, Rosie Assoulin top.

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