Fashion Assassin

I do not understand fashion. I don't follow it, or even try to keep up with what's popular; I never have. I'm really good at recognizing what's NOT popular and manage to avoid that. I am also bold enough to attempt some things that are just starting to come in, and what might be just on their way out. I believe my taste (read: what I would LIKE to be wearing) is known as Classic and Boho Chic. My style (read: budget) is probably just Basic Bitch Classic. Who the fuck can argue with jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, and well-fitted jackets? Especially if you accessorize correctly. And Ruby Rose* is a whole "next-level jeans and t-shirts" aesthetic I strive for.

*Disclaimer: I look NOTHING like Ruby Rose. I'm not in that kind of shape, my hair is long at the moment, and I don't have nearly that many tattoos (yet - sorry Mom). But I have never seen any other person rock sweatpants with a sports bra and a leather jacket to get coffee on a Monday morning and then show up to a movie premiere in a fitted tux (with a bandeau top, no less) later that week and consistently thought; "I want to be able to pull that off" to each. Maybe P!nk... damn... I might have to cut my hair again. Anyway...

So there I was, in my late 20's in the 2010s, late-blooming on the skinny jeans trend. They were still... around, but had sort of peaked and were starting to come back down. Like a bad, bad trip. This clearly meant it was time for me to not only acquire a pair but to try them on for the first time in my life. My cut of choice up to that point, and to this day, is boot-cut. That choice has a lot to do with the ridiculous, pride-crushing, and self-imposed dangerous shenanigans that you are about to read.

I have no idea what shop I was in; it was some sort of department store I think. I'm pretty sure I've done some post-traumatic memory blocking of the details surrounding the event. I remember walking through a store with massively high ceilings and bad fluoro lighting, and the next thing I remember is being in the dressing room, looking in the mirror over my shoulder at my ass, thinking "These are actually alright!". Everything was fine up to this point. I'd brought my size, and each of the next 3 sizes up with me because ... "skinny". I didn't realize wriggling into them was going to remind me so much of getting into tights before dance class when I was 12 - I made a mental note to check and see if it was fashionable to wear ballet flats with these. I was even in a good enough mood that when I tried on my actual size and the waistband STOPPED at my thighs before I could pull the legs the rest of the way on, it didn't bother me too much to have to go up a size just to get them over my ass. Because once they were all the way on; Ka- KOW! Alright, I'll wear these, and they're on sale! This was looking like a successful shopping trip - for pants, no less!

The step no one had prepared me for was trying to take them off.

Remember, I'm a boot-cut gal up to this point; you unbutton, unzip, push them off of your hips and they sort of just... fall off. So here I am in what is essentially a poorly lit, broom closet with a mirror (we've all been in one at some point; you can push on each wall with full strength if you're facing the door or the mirror, but you can't touch the mirror or the door if you're facing a wall standing in the middle with your arms stretched out), pants unbuttoned and unzipped, gazing over my tits towards my navel, somewhat baffled as to why my pants are still... on. Do I peel them off? Like, turn them inside out? Surely not because then every time I take them off I'd have to turn them right-side-out again; that seems like a lot of work. And I'm not a big fan of having to do more steps before I can put my clothes away - if they end up away at all. But if I pull from the cuff I'll have friction resistance from my ENTIRE leg. And if I just push them down by the waistband, I still have to pull the entire leg over each foot because I can't just step out of them... These already feel like they aren't worth it. How are they so fucking popular? Is this why they started to die out? When I used to take off my ballet tights I'd just slide my hands down the sides of my legs to the floor, with my thumb hooked over the waistband, and step out of the neat little pile of sweaty, stinky, elastic noodle fabric that was bunched up around my feet. Maybe I could combine methods...

I realized I was still staring down at these clingy pants, my brow creased in confusion about their "on" status, and decided to act. Standing with my left side towards the door, I picked up my left leg a bit and immediately fell sideways into the door. Because I was still in an ok mood up to this point I was able to giggle at my clumsiness and went to try again. I picked up my foot again, quickly bent over to grab the cuff, and hit my forehead on the wall of the change room, which then knocked me back so my butt hit the opposite wall. BUT I had the left cuff in my right hand and had something sturdy to stabilize myself against. Winning, I guess? I did that thing where I reached up to touch my forehead and check for blood out of instinct and was suddenly overcome with dizziness. No blood, just lightheaded from... pants-exertion? WTF?

With new, added confusion as to why I was now breathing like I'd walked up a flight of stairs, I pulled down on the cuff in my right hand, and sure enough, full resistance. I don't have muscular legs or anything, but there's some substance to them. Clearly, these pants were content, settled in their current location. My brain decided right then was the time to have flashbacks to previous dressing room adventures when I'd found myself feeling trapped in tops that were too tight for my ample bosom and ended up in a pretzel position that resembled trying to get out of a straight jacket. I mean I just assume... At least with pants, there are other options for leverage when it comes to removal. It has also just now occurred to me that I should probably look into getting a personal shopper, just once, so that I stop picking up shit that isn't suited to my body type. But I digress.

Now trying not to panic over thoughts of having to be cut out of a pair of skinny fucking jeans by a smug sales associate, I took what was clearly the only logical step that was left open to me. With all of the grace of a baby giraffe, I employed those long-dormant ballet skills, turned on my right foot, with my left ankle crossed over my right thigh (still holding on to the cuff of the jeans in my right hand - because that was the fucking mission), squatted, plonked my ass down on the scratchy carpet of the change room floor, and took a deep breath in preparation. This was now a wrestling match. Aaaand the pants were winning.

Aligning with the rest of the encounter, this did not go well. I ended up on my back, banging both knees on the walls when I tried to reach for both of my ankles and get both arms involved. After what felt like 10 minutes (and in reality, very well could have been) I had one of my arms crammed halfway down one pants leg, holding on to the cuff with the other hand, and my other knee pulled somewhere up around my ear and was questioning every life choice up to that point before an attendant finally knocked on the door and asked if I needed any help. Thank Chanel, Givenchy, and Yves Saint Laurent the change rooms were the kind where the walls and doors went all the way down to the floor and no one could see the drunk octopus vs sentient, jerk legwear calamity that was occurring within. I laid there, stuck, winded, humiliated, but frozen, said I was "fine, thank you", in a much higher-pitched and strangled voice than I intended, and stayed perfectly still, on my back like a fucking turtle until I heard footsteps walking away. I disentangled my arm, laid back with both feet on the floor, sighed, and admitted defeat. Years of ADHD mistaken for laziness screeched like demons from the depths of my soul, as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, lifted my hips, and went for the "peel off and turn inside-out" method. Like a 5'4", annoyed, bruised, and deflated banana.

Out of sheer fucking spite, I ended up buying that exact pair of pants. There was no way in hell I was going to concede defeat to slinky, somewhat-stretch denim that had kicked my ass on a poorly lit closet floor. Especially after it had made my ass look that good before kicking it. We'd have this fight again on my home turf, where the floor would be more comfortable, and I could swear creatively and VERY much out loud. I would have more room to roll around, assume more creative yoga positions, and I could pair this dark blue, wriggly, angry, self-aware, deadly, asshole cotton blend with fabulous shoes to remind it (and me) that the fight is worth it.