Dear Pants,
When I first noticed your picture online, I thought, could we be a match?
I read your profile. Some people think online buying doesn’t work, and you have to first meet the pants in person. But you seemed like you were just my size. Maybe it was the wording: “Women’s Crepe Trouser Pants.” I love crepes. And you were on sale. It seemed like it was meant to be.
I took a chance on you, pants! I admit I’m usually more of a skirts and dresses person. I have issues with jeans, although I’ve found ways to make them work with me. But dress pants, trousers, or slacks – call them what you will – have always been problematic for me. Yet hope sprang eternal that maybe it would work out when I saw you online.
But since we’ve been together, there have just been too many problems.
I’ll admit to my role in it. Let’s face it – I have what you might call a callipygian figure. Also, someone recently pointed at my stomach and said “Congratulations.” This isn’t the first time this has happened, either. “I’m not pregnant,” I said. “Well, someone once thought I was still pregnant a few weeks after I had my baby!” my would-be congratulator replied. Fair enough – I am, after all, only six years postpartum.
If we’re being completely honest, I had my doubts from the beginning. I didn’t realize you’d be so high maintenance. Dry clean only. That was a bit of a turnoff. You called yourself “trouser pants”. That’s redundant, ok? Pick one – trousers or pants. Not “trouser pants”! Plus, just as people always fear, you looked completely different than your online picture. I mean, you clearly had pleats, which I hadn’t noticed when I saw you online. The truth is I would never have brought you into my home and my life if I’d realized you were pleated.
For a while, though, I tried to make it work. You seemed a little tight in the waist, and a bit too long. I knew I’d have to wear you with heels – but I was prepared to compromise because that’s what partnerships are about. I considered tailoring, but then I wondered if I was the one who needed to change. Maybe I could finally lose that 5 pounds and fit into you!
I tried you on again. I was going to wear you to work. At first, things were fine, as they often are. Then I looked at my butt in the mirror. I tried to sit down while wearing you. I realized you were oddly short in the “rise”, aka the crotch area. There’s just no way to fix that. I’m sorry.
So we’re going to have to break up. Sometimes sticking with something is easier than letting it go – especially since I don’t have time to go to the post office. I have no idea how much it’s going to cost to return you. But I’m going to do what I have to do. Because you’re just not the right fit for me, and I have to admit this. There’s no point in hanging on to you any longer.
I’m sure there are lots of people out there for you. I hope you find someone who dry-cleans you, and never puts you in the washing machine, or heaven forbid, the dryer. I hope she never spills coffee on you. I hope she never snags you on a sharp object and tears a hole in your fabric. I wish you all the happiness in the world! Maybe I’ll see you on the street someday. If I do, I’ll smile, knowing that you found the right woman for you. She’ll be a lady with a short torso, narrow hips, and long legs.
Janine Annett lives in New York, in a house full of piles of books, with her husband, son, and very old cat. Her writing has appeared on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, the Establishment, Slackjaw, the Belladonna Comedy, Parent.Co, and other websites. Janine also writes picture books. Her website is http:/www.janineannett.com. You can also follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/janineannett or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/janineannettauthor/.