In Which I Cop To Not Liking Pants

It helps to pants, feh that I've been wearing clothes befitting a 19th-century lady naturalist. Pants for women were unheard of for Victorian women and on nature walks I've been following the suit of early women in science by wearing a parade of long Liberty-print dresses from the '80s handed down to me by my mom. And, guess what, I like wearing NO PANTS. 

Just 'cuz it zips, doesn't mean it fits. Middle age is upon me. I also don't care for heels.

"Pants are devilish leg sleeves" because of my body shape (uneven pear, when I took a quiz) and I can't stand the thinly guised gal pal advice of women's magazines and the lady internets about How To Pour Your Uneven Pear Body Into The Perfect Pair of Jeans. What's sexy is confidence.

Trousers, pants, jeans, call the devilish leg sleeves what you will, and even sweats, they are restrictive for me, friction-y, bind-y, clinging-y in the melange that is my bum and thigh, ankle and calf.  They never fit at the waist. Then, after all that fuss, they only cover half of you. You are left in the unenviable position of having to additionally raiment your top.

However, charmingly, easily, comfortably, a dress is like a sack. A one-piece wonderment. A becoming, bewitching sack that one has freedom of movement in to pick herbs in. LURV a sack. I feel most confident in a sack.

Only respect for cousin of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, suffragette Elizabeth Miller who is credited as the first woman to wear pants (in the photo at top). "In 1851 Miller became known for her Bloomer costume, which she patterned after the Turkish trousers she saw on a visit to Europe." Well done. Miller worked to secure women's civil rights, and our right to wear whatever the f to cover our nethers. For me, it's a sack. For you, it's your choice.