There is trouser trouble afoot. All of mine fell apart simultaneously – a function of finding some I didn’t hate, bulk-buying them, then wearing nothing else for the past eight years. This leaves me needing more, which in 2023 is a terrible place to be.
It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not like buying a swimsuit, or spectacles, activities for which I would happily be placed in a medically induced coma, leaving someone else to choose for me. But judging by my targeted ads, trouser consensus has collapsed entirely, leaving an anarchic free-for-all of style and fabric. Scrolling the gen Z resale app Depop confirms it: crops, ruching, massive flares, “Y2K” combats and patterns so reminiscent of a Magic Eye poster I expect a unicorn to appear from the crotch.
Every woman I talk to agrees. “Ugly, ill-fitting, the worst material,” says one. “An identity crisis in twill or denim that requires a user’s manual,” says another. “I don’t want to look as though I’ve borrowed Bilbo Baggins’ weekend outfit,” bemoans a third. “The big crotch and camel toe lobbies are just too powerful,” explains my best friend, sagely.
Many say they have resorted to making their own trousers, but I can’t sew. Instead, prompted by desperation and the algorithm’s absurdly optimistic suggestions (“The most flattering pants ever!”), I bought some. Given that the psychological barrier to me returning anything is Everest-high, the fact I instantly sent them back tells you everything you need to know about these cursed trousers.
Then, finally, a breakthrough: in an actual shop, I found stretchy, slim-fit trousers in plain, pleasant colours, with capacious pockets. There was even a handy inner one that zipped up! You’ve probably already guessed what I only realised once I’d bought a pair, despite them being slightly baggy and very long: they were for men. So now either I accept my new identity as someone who wears comfy, oversized men’s trousers, a point from which I suspect there is no return, or I re-engage with the lawless, elastane-rich world of feminine trousers. I know which way I’m leaning, and it’s a ruching-free zone.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
