hipster

I went on a mission this evening- in search of pants. I've become a bit of a dress-and-skirt kinda girl in the past year or so, but as the weather turns cold and I have nothing of substance to cover my legs, I feel the aquisition of said garments to be imperative.

Of course I had to make more personally gratifying detours while tooling through my neighborhood, which included discovering and perusing Dean and Deluca and the Gourmet Garage, two boutique, hoity-toity groceries. One five-dollar espresso and thirty minutes of snickering at overpriced cheese and peanut butter later, I focused in on the purpose of the excursion.

Alas, pants are my least favorite apparel to shop for. First on my list is dresses, jewelry and underwear, followed by shirts and shoes, followed last of all by pants. It's my hate-hate relationship with my hips and thighs. I shun their form, and they respond to the negative energy by demanding pastries and holding on to the associated calories in protest. It's a bad cycle.

So when I found myself tooling up and down Broadway in my neighborhood (soho) this evening, looking for the right pair of pants and being disappointed, I finally decided I'd start at jeans and work my way up to work trousers. I've been kind of inadvertently sporting the beatnik look the past year or so, mostly black and somewhat french-mimey (and a lot of horizontal stripes more recently, too- I just beg for the Francophile teasing.). I had in mind dark skinny-cut jeans and was gravely disappointed by the low waists that were associated with the style and consequently do bad things to my lines by hitting at my widest part. So I ended up getting the old standby bootcut and feeling slightly less hip. Much hips, less hip. Ha.

However, my emotions took an upturn during the jean-buying experience- when I checked out there was a supercute guy in front of me who, the salesgirl reported after, was checking me out (I tend to be kind of oblivious). Ha! Then huzzah, I go to leave and he's there, holding the door for me and telling me to have a nice night. He was holding things for his mother (one point for him); he may have even been French (bonus point for my fantasy). There are a lot of them around.

Score one for my wide hips. Hoo-ah.