the tale of the naughty leggings

I have a legging rule. It doesn’t need any qualification, there are no exceptions. They are very naughty gym clothes that sidled into our unsuspecting fashion stores, hiding between the skinny jeans and hosiery, fooling unsuspecting shoppers and taking a stranglehold. They are not pants. They should never be worn as pants.

At the risk of exposing myself as a crumbly fence-sitter, I have discovered a clause in what I had previously considered an iron-clad rule. Models. Last weekend I watched a fashion parade run-through. They were in their Friday sloppys, walking around a large runway circle, in preparation for the main event. I was ready to assume my disinterested face. I was there for the fashion, not the models, der. I am a very serious person and not easily distracted.*

But to my dismay, I couldn’t look away; much less raise a disapproving eyebrow at even the most criminal of the species: faux-metal studded leggings, tight to the ankle, faded black. With baggy t-shirts and bare feet. It pains me to admit, but they looked good. And it wasn’t just the girls. The male models wearing their stonewashed, dropped-crotch, scrunched ankle, post-mod man-leggings were gorgeous as well.

I have since wondered if it was the bare chests, the bass-heavy music, or the soft rhythmic clicking of fifty camera flash-bulbs which lulled me into some sort of out-of-body fashion experience. But I know deep down it could only be one thing. The Strut. 

Not a schlep or a stroll or a stride. The shoulders are held back, hips sliding slowly from side to side, the chin and head are poised with smoky eyes staring intently ahead. It’s the strut that says ‘I am worth watching’. And even the most ordinary not-pants become something better.

Aside from the hot new fashion trends (chokers, bows,lace and long tailored skirts), that day I learnt that commanding attention is as much about what you wear as how you wear it. Not to say that leggings will find a place in my wardrobe. But in a post-apocalyptic world void of pants, skirts or dresses, ruled by death-ray-wielding stretch-spandex tyrants, I would survive.

The only way would be to wiggle into a pair and get my strut on. After all, aren’t rules made for stretching?

*not actually true. I am constantly distrac… oooh, shiny thing!