A few weeks ago, I had a terrible realization. I needed new pants.
In theory, this should be a simple errand. Stores are crammed with pairs of every size, shape and material: wide leg, bootcut; high-waisted, elastic waist; denim, pleather. And yet, trying on pants inevitably feels to me like entering an MC Escher drawing. What looks like a regular pair of jeans on the rack will hang on me in a way that is both confounding and upsetting. It makes me envy Winnie-the-Pooh and his minimalist, top-only uniform.
