If there's one thing in life I'm nominally confident about, it's this; pants aren't the boss of me.
The thing is, I hate pants, and all their buttony-zippery grossness. Maybe it's the five-year-old child in me (and there must be one in there, cause I've had pink-eye three times in two months) but I'm not happy with life unless my legs are either bare or encased in Lycra.
So what's the beef, you ask? Well, aside from my inability to fit into anything at Gymboree, I just landed a writing job in a very corporatey, orangy-county-y office.
And that means pants. No, worse than that; that means slacks.
Gross.
Goodnight legs. Goodnight tights. Goodnight leggings.
Goodnight, cruel world.
You could always wear skirts. But I guess that's even worse. Then you have to walk and sit like a lady, which is something I struggle with greatly.
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