If anyone was living in Boston in the late ‘90s, you may have called them “going out pants,” or “booty pants” (if you went to BU). You wore them with some sort of “going out top” which was probably low-cut and had some sort of sparkle on it. You “finished off the look” with black high-heeled boots and a look on your face that said I may be intelligent but I am definitely available (i.e Harvard, MIT, you took the train in from Wellesley).
As the millennium dawned and fashion styles changed, these became “cute pants for work” which you “paired” with “cute tops” and “totally versatile cardigans you can wear with anything” (a little redundant, don’t you think, BC?). You wore white cross-trainers to work and switched into pointed-toed kitten heels in leopard print because you were SASSY (we get it, Emerson).
Then you stopped wearing the pants. You threw their microfiber viscose rayon spandex stretchy selves into the trash (Goodwill) and moved on. You left them so far behind that you started referring to pants as “pant.”
Well, I didn’t. By last count I have 5 pairs of these pantS. And worse, I wear them. Every time I walk into TargeMarshaMaxx I seek them out. Maybe THIS time they are cuter. Maybe THIS time they are more fashion forward. Maybe THIS time they are made of a fabric that wasn’t cooked up by a scientist in a lab. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
But they are $20. And they fit better than 99.9% of the rest of the world’s pant. So, if you see me out at night, and you are like, I bet she just came from work, 8 years ago. Or, there I am working away and you are like, um, is she going out later, to 1997? You’re both right.