I'm Not Hip

The style these days is for young people to wear hiphuggers. From what I’ve seen, these pants don’t just hug; they hang on for dear life. It’s not that I mind the lowcut styles. It’s just that when I see that much of a child’s behind, I have to fight the urge to puff it with a cloud of baby powder and slap a diaper on it.

Ever the hitchhiker on the fashion superhighway, I ventured into the local Hip Bones R Us to give the new style a try. Sure, I wore hiphuggers when I was a teenager, but that was two children and a chocolate laden post-divorce feeding frenzy ago. Maybe now I need something a little more forgiving. I don't want to give the impression that my underwear might spontaneously combust when I walk across a room.

I came out of the dressing room like an American Idol contestant that sang Happy Birthday to Simon in the key of X. When the saleslady cocks her head to one side and calls you Sweetie like you’re the last one left on the Atkins diet, you know something’s wrong. I was going to call my husband for support, but my cell phone was wedged under what I think used to be my hip bone. My appendix buzzed every time I missed a call.

The belly shirt I rolled on with the outfit did nothing to hide my personal information from random passers by. The janitor at the mall now knows I had two emergency C-Sections and an unfortunate run-in with a weed eater, and you can Mapquest my stretch marks on the Internet.

It seems to me it would be a good deal more flattering if the shirts were hip huggers and the trousers were belly pants. Then I could have an extra muffin for breakfast without tipping off everyone at the office as to how many poppy seeds were involved.

I’ve read that fashions are designed for size zero runway models who exist on soy shavings and bottled water and who have legs longer than a New York traffic jam. If so, I can see why these pants are all the rage. It's road rage.