i am a fashion don't

One morning two weeks ago, I awoke to discover my favorite pair of pantaloons had finally reached that state of undeniable nonwearability, the point at which to put them on my person would require a compromise of personal pride proportions. While I would be lying to say I haven’t done so before, on this particular morning, I just couldn’t bring myself to climb in.

I was confounded by the rare dilemma I suddenly found myself facing—namely, what would I wear now? As my friends and family know, this is not a question I ask myself often, preferring instead to simply (and perhaps lazily) wear what I wore yesterday, washing clothes while I sleep to perpetuate the re-wear cycle indefinitely if possible.

But sometimes, my style (or lack thereof) strategy catches up with me, and I’m forced to identify an alternative to a favorite. On the day in discussion, I panicked and, in my frenzied fashion state, slid into a pair of surprisingly chic grumpy pants. I’ve been wearing them ever since.

My grumpy pants make me grumpy. And irritable. And emotional. I actually cried the other day when I ran out of soymilk. Soymilk, people. That’s just sad.

So, I’ve decided the grumpy pants have to go.

After a day of doing laundry and listening to Dylan, I’m back in the old favorites. And while these pants are not particularly fashionable (unless you’re a fan of faded, frayed, and hand-cropped at home), they’re certainly more comfortable than the grumpy pair in which I’ve been parading around P-town recently.

I imagine I’ll still be sad sometimes, as I adjust to unexpected changes in my personal and professional lives. But I refuse to cry ever again on account of a sudden soymilk shortage. Because, well, that’s just silly.