I’ve realized that it’s not just the weather that gets to me. Its the clothing requirements that the weather imposes.

Listen, I don’t know if my body is just The Most Weirdly Shaped in America, or the people who design pants are just high, but I can’t find a pair of pants that fit me worth a shit. Granted, the fact that I am built like Humpty Dumpty doesn’t help, but nothing makes me feel as much like a candidate for the Island of Misfit toys as trying on pants.

This week, I pulled out every pair of jeans currently in my possession (a formidable pile of ones that once fit and never will again and ones that fit sort of and look like hot garbage) and began the grueling task of reminding myself why I hate every one of them. I added insult to injury by ordering no less than 16 new pairs of jeans on a quest to find ANYTHING that I don’t loathe. The project was an abject failure.

All the rises were wrong. The ones that were stretchy enough to fit will be falling down around my hips within an hour or two. The unstretchy ones make me absolutely miserable (see below). I realized in my ordering frenzy I got a couple pairs that were identical to jeans I already have and hate (at least I am consistent). And don’t get me started on denim washes - WHY the hell any designer thinks we want giant, sandblasted spots directly below our asses or faded whiskers all over our pelvis I will never know.

My sister and I keep talking about having a Blue Jeans Blues party where we invite all of our friends (so like 2.5 people, including us and a dog), and we order a whole bunch of new jeans and bring all our old ones and every one gets to try them all on and trade around and then end the night crying together over several bottles of wine. We’ll make this happen one night.

I’ve realized that the worst part about wintertime is having to put pants on to go anywhere. I’m beginning to think that I don’t have Seasonal Affective Disorder, I have Pants-Seasonal Affective Disorder. I know the universal answer to this struggle for most girls is black leggings, which I’ve been sporting my share of, don’t get me wrong, but let’s be honest, we’re all desperately seeking the perfect jeans. And we find them, from time to time. And nothing is as GOOD as slipping into your favorite jeans that make you feel not only like you look good, but also like you can still breathe and you’re not being eviscerated. And then two weeks later you gain ten pounds or the thigh rips out or they’re stretched and they won’t stay up or your daughter borrows them and you never see them again.

I thought I was the only crazy person in the world that has a hard time wearing any of the currently popular high rise, and some days, even leggings, because of abdominal issues that make any pressure on my guts extremely painful. I’ve always been envious of women who can wear pants that cut into their midsection without being in agony. It’s not worth the pain for me and I’ve been perpetually mocked for my low-rise obsession by most people until I met someone last year with the same issues I have. Maybe I am not insane after all. The high rise styles also don’t fit me well since I need about 4 sizes larger in the waist than I do in the hips and thighs, which is the opposite of most normal women, especially curvy ones who can’t find jeans with a small enough waist that will also accomodate their hips. Gosh I wish we could do some swapping and even shit out a little. I really do.

My brother told me that some sort of khaki/dockers/stretchy slack is the answer. I’ve tried so many women’s not-jeans-pants and those cuts seem even less forgiving than jeans for the most part. My oldest kid told me athleisure is the name of the game and that I can rock my joggers and leggings unapologetically, but even finding joggers that don’t cut into my belly and aren’t the slouchy 60’s era McQueen athletic sweats is a feat.

In the summer while I’m working on fires, it’s easy. I have to wear Nomex so I just hunt down the least worst of those and luckily there aren’t a ton of options and (unless you’re a hotshot or a mid-90s dad) I don’t think anybody is expecting to look sexy AF in ripstop cargo pants. It’s just a uniform. Also uncomfortable, but part of the professional territory.

But then I come home just in time for the weather to turn to cold, grey shit and I have to wear pants.

So I avoid going out when the weather dictates anything more than drawstring beach shorts. Or some version of a sundress. This is why Grandma wore monochromatic sweat suits, people. I am not supposed to be living here, y’all. It hasn’t been above freezing for weeks and I don’t have any snow boots tall enough to keep the slush from slopping into the tops and trickling slowly down to saturate my sock and the hem of whatever miserable pair of pants I have forced myself into for only as long as it takes to go do what I absolutely must and get home and get out of the fucking pants.

Do I need to lose weight? Yes. Do I need to get my gut issues checked out/resolved? Yes. Could there not still, somewhere, be either A) a pair of jeans that fit me or B) a world without jeans (I’m looking at you, Florida). But this anti-pants theme is not a new one for me, I’ve been writing about it since my earliest blog posts. I am excited to find out if I spend more time in pantsless regions if there will be a direct correlation to how depressed I am… stay tuned.