I had no pants. We were going out and I had to look nice, so I went to my closet and realized that I had nothing that would help me accomplish that task. I had two pairs of jeans that fit, two more pairs of jeans that were too tight (but were still there because I told myself I'd slim back down one day to fit in them), decade-old suit pants, pleated corduroys (GAHHHH), and a pair of khakis I fucking despised and were also too tight. Standard dad closet.
So I put on the same Old Navy jeans I wore every day and hoped tossing on a jacket would make me look like some tech oligarch who drives a BMW convertible and can make jeans work at a semi-formal occasion. They did not. I came downstairs and my wife looked dynamite, which only underscored how dumpy I looked—the sort of appalling fashion mismatch you see on the red carpet of any Adam Sandler movie premiere. And the worst part was that my wife wasn't even annoyed. No, at this point, she was used to being married to a sloppy, hopeless pants case.
It's a weird thing, to be 40 years old and realize that you have no clue how to dress the lower half of your body. It's especially galling given I work at, you know, this magazine. But I've sucked at pants my whole life, and I can't tell you whether I was born hating them or if there is some childhood pant trauma that I've suppressed and have yet to unearth. My body doesn't help matters. I have no ass and my thighs are wider than a Texas highway. They do not make pants for my body prototype. I have silently fumed when a Gap or Banana Republic only has a 28-inch-size waist in stock, as if America were populated exclusively by tiny Italian men. I have cursed jeans that were too stiff and hot. I have openly despaired while trying to fasten that little hook on a pair of trousers, packing myself into them like I'm trying to close a suitcase. I have expressed sticker shock at the price of tailored pants.
And khakis? Man, FUCK khakis. I own khakis strictly because my inner eighth grader has been trained to believe that you need khakis if you're going out to a fancy brunch or singing in a choir recital. I'd rather die than wear them. They're ugly and act as a magnet for piss stains. Also, the only thing I hate more than pants is shopping, so you see my problem. I have bitched and moaned and cried out, WHY CAN'T THEY MAKE PANTS FOR ME? to anyone who will listen.
And, at long last, someone did. I found myself a guru. A sensei. A MASTER. Enter Mark Anthony Green, GQ's style editor and a man whose sartorial choices are so effortless as to be pure sorcery. I walked into his office and could instantly see that it pained Mark Anthony to look at me dressed the way I was. I was like a toddler coming home from school covered in mud and paste. I tried to explain my plight to him, listing out my grievances against BIG PANT just as I have listed them out for you. He was shaking his head well before I was finished talking.
"You're wrong about like five things, just to start this off."
Nevertheless, he took it upon himself to be my personal pant coach and teach me to find that uncanny valley where being comfortable and looking good can miraculously coexist. Here now is what I learned from him during the long and painstaking process of pant rehab:
So I put on the same Old Navy jeans I wore every day and hoped tossing on a jacket would make me look like some tech oligarch who drives a BMW convertible and can make jeans work at a semi-formal occasion. They did not. I came downstairs and my wife looked dynamite, which only underscored how dumpy I looked—the sort of appalling fashion mismatch you see on the red carpet of any Adam Sandler movie premiere. And the worst part was that my wife wasn't even annoyed. No, at this point, she was used to being married to a sloppy, hopeless pants case.It's a weird thing, to be 40 years old and realize that you have no clue how to dress the lower half of your body. It's especially galling given I work at, you know, this magazine. But I've sucked at pants my whole life, and I can't tell you whether I was born hating them or if there is some childhood pant trauma that I've suppressed and have yet to unearth. My body doesn't help matters. I have no ass and my thighs are wider than a Texas highway. They do not make pants for my body prototype. I have silently fumed when a Gap or Banana Republic only has a 28-inch-size waist in stock, as if America were populated exclusively by tiny Italian men. I have cursed jeans that were too stiff and hot. I have openly despaired while trying to fasten that little hook on a pair of trousers, packing myself into them like I'm trying to close a suitcase. I have expressed sticker shock at the price of tailored pants.
And khakis? Man, FUCK khakis. I own khakis strictly because my inner eighth grader has been trained to believe that you need khakis if you're going out to a fancy brunch or singing in a choir recital. I'd rather die than wear them. They're ugly and act as a magnet for piss stains. Also, the only thing I hate more than pants is shopping, so you see my problem. I have bitched and moaned and cried out, WHY CAN'T THEY MAKE PANTS FOR ME? to anyone who will listen.
And, at long last, someone did. I found myself a guru. A sensei. A MASTER. Enter Mark Anthony Green, GQ's style editor and a man whose sartorial choices are so effortless as to be pure sorcery. I walked into his office and could instantly see that it pained Mark Anthony to look at me dressed the way I was. I was like a toddler coming home from school covered in mud and paste. I tried to explain my plight to him, listing out my grievances against BIG PANT just as I have listed them out for you. He was shaking his head well before I was finished talking.
"You're wrong about like five things, just to start this off."
Nevertheless, he took it upon himself to be my personal pant coach and teach me to find that uncanny valley where being comfortable and looking good can miraculously coexist. Here now is what I learned from him during the long and painstaking process of pant rehab:
by Drew Magary, GQ | Read more:
Image: Getty
