I can hear all ten of you breathing a sigh of relief because I’m not posting one of those stupid Endless Books You Hate or Love or Love to Hate or Whatever Challenge posts. Don’t worry, my goal with this post is to punish your relief with awful clothing. This way, you’ll be happy when I put one up later today. On the plus side, you get to feel superior to me clothing-wise, so technically I’m boosting your self-esteem and you win in this exchange. You’re welcome.
Anyone who is attracted to women might want to take a deep breath before viewing the picture below. I know, it’s almost too much hotness to handle.
These are probably the ugliest pants in the world. At least, they’re the ugliest pants owned by someone with enough money to purchase another pair of pants and who can, therefore, be discriminating in her choice of pants. To answer the burning question in everyone’s mind, yes, that is me, which means I am the owner of the hideous pants. What’s even scarier is I’m wearing them and willingly posting a picture of myself wearing them on the internet. For the record, I’m not completely shameless. You’ll notice my face isn’t in the picture so technically I can always deny it, though I think the pants are pretty much identifiable everywhere.* As always, there’s a story behind these, but I’m going to post another couple of pictures so we can fully appreciate their awfulness.
Where do I even start with the wrongness? I know you’re all saying “the pattern, my god, the pattern,” but oh, there’s more. It’s like one of those “how many things are wrong in this picture?” comics from Highlights for Kids magazine. Fortunately for you I’ve had these pants for an embarrassingly long time, so you don’t have to damage your eyes by trying to pinpoint all the issues. Here’s a quick marked-up picture of the worst stuff to help you out:
The story of the pants is not terribly dramatic. It really boils down to my mom bought them for me and gave them to me for Christmas a few years ago. While an eye-rapingly bright and gaudy pair of pajama pants isn’t a typical Christmas present from her, I should have seen this one coming. You see, my mother thinks I live in dour colors. She’s right about this – I wear lots of black, brown, gray, and darker jewel tones. I don’t wear these because I’m some sort of half-goth like she seems to think, but because I’m ash blond and light-eyed, with skin that has a tendency to look fire-engine red when I’m dressed in anything bright.** Bright colors are bad on me. Bad. Unfortunately for me my mother is almost the opposite in coloring, dark brown hair and eyes, with a very non-ruddy skin tone – in other words, a person who looks great in bright colors -and she just doesn’t understand my resistance to all things bright and cheery. I’m even further in the doghouse clothing-wise because I don’t particularly like the way most prints look on me, which is apparently just not okay with mom. The upshot of her being absolutely convinced I’d look fantastic in colors, prints, and colorful prints is that she winds up buying me bright, printed clothing a lot. Most of the time it’s perfectly fine stuff that I’d willingly wear in public, like a bright-blue shirt – not the most flattering for me, but whatever. I can deal, it’s a present for Chrissakes.
Unfortunately I’ve been steadily resisting purchasing colored or patterned clothing for about ten years now, and I think something finally shorted in her head when she bought these – something that made her decide that combining ALL the prints and ALL the colors into one garment would kill about a thousand birds with one stone when it came to my poor clothing choices. And so she went with the most color and pattern she could get on one garment, and I was gifted some ass-ugly pants.***
Now, a more important question is: why the everloving Christ did I keep the pants? At first I did the “oh mom, thanks!” thing because, well, she’s my mom and I love her and appreciate it when she tries to help me. Then I felt them and, shit, they’re flannel. I love flannel pajamas. It’s a horrible weakness, but I just associate flannel pajamas with nice chilly winters and fireplaces and all kinds of awesome and at the time I was way too broke to afford purchasing a better, less insane pair of flannel pajama pants.**** So I kept them and shamefully wore them to bed while reveling the warmth and fuzziness of my horrible pants. But the real blow was this, which it truly pains me to admit: They’ve grown on me.
It’s kind of like pugs. The first time some people see a pug they recoil because god damn, that is one ugly animal. Then they see them a couple of more times and they’re kind of funny in a really weird, snuffly, stunted sort of way, and soon enough they’re fucked because they start actually liking pugs and thinking they’re cute.***** That’s kind of what happened to me with these pants: I now unironically like them, fucked up though that may be. They’re comfortable. They’re fuzzy and warm. They’re hideous as shit, but in a way that makes me feel like I’m striking a blow against female stereotypes. I can wear these pants****** and feel like “Yes, my pants are horrible but I like them. Deal with it because I Dress for Me!” I’m sold.
The only road block I’ve faced has been, as you may have predicted, R. He hates these pants with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. When I wear them, his reaction is something along the lines of “Oh god take those fucking things off. No. I meant take them off and put on a better pair of pants for fuck’s sake.” While this is a common reaction whenever The Pants make an appearance, I think R best summed his feelings up best that fateful morning when I first unwrapped them and he told me, “you know, I think this is your mom’s way of telling us she’s just not ready for grandkids yet.”
And with that, I’ll repost my original picture so you guys can see just how wrong he is. Too sexy? Oh, but I must.*******
* Note to self: destroy terrible pants prior to embarking on illustrious and ill-fated bank-robbing career.
** I once accidentally dyed my hair strawberry blonde in high school (ashy hair + a warmer color dye = RED, as I sadly found out) and I looked perpetually sunburned until I dyed it back to a less-red color.
*** My father actually visibly cringed when I opened them on Christmas morning.
**** For all you smartasses thinking “who needs flannel in Florida?” well, you just shut your dirty, logical mouth.
***** I’m still 100% in the god damn that’s an ugly animal cringing phase. Then again, I own these pants so my judgement is in question.
****** Only in the house. Feminism only makes you okay with hideous pants to a certain extent.
******* If you don’t get it please see this. Specifically, pay attention at 3:14.