The weather is getting colder and your average male Hoya is transitioning his salmon shorts out for his salmon—sorry, Nantucket Red—pants. These pants must meet a variety of criteria in order for the wearer to appear as if he has effortlessly put together his outfit, when in actuality, he has thought about it a great deal. Such criteria include, but are not limited to: a waist tight enough to drape a loosely fitting button-down over, pant legs long enough to cover the shin but not long enough to cover his Sperrys, and pant legs tight enough to restrict blood flow to the metatarsals.
There are two truths, seemingly at odds, that arise from this type of dress. Number one: many of us, specifically me, cannot wear these pants without great discomfort. And two: they will probably get you laid.
Clearly, trying to rock the Georgetown look is an attractive proposition, but meeting all three criteria is a near impossibility for people of irregular body types. For the irredeemably skinny folks out there, a belt is not just a cute accessory, but a necessity for keeping pants secured at the waist. Already, we’re messing with the formula. And what if you’re shorter than your waist size would indicate? I hope you weren’t too attached to your ankle fashion because it’s going to be permanently hiding behind an iron curtain of pant leg. Anything shy of tailoring every pair of pants you own will end up insufficient, and even if you did that, you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. But at least these problems are conventionally solvable.
Then there’s me. I possess two traits that make fall and winter fashion hell: obsessive metrosexuality—no, I’m not a narcissist—and monstrous calves (ok yes, I totally am). I blame the Internet for the former and a childhood spent walking everywhere I went for the latter. The result is that every morning, I spend about five minutes shoving my legs down pants that fit me everywhere else; the waist is skinny and the legs are long. Over the course of about 10 minutes of walking in these pants, the leg will ride up and chafe my skin. While this does result in a prominent display of my socks—argyle, thank you for noticing—it’s also incredibly uncomfortable.
Fortunately, the solution is simple. As the summer months wane, regular gym goers ditch their muscle shirts—designed with enlarged sleeves to accommodate the increased size of their upper torso and biceps—and start to wear long sleeves again.
Now, many men who make regular appearances at Yates can be rightly called guilty of skipping leg day, but for those of us who believe firmly that every day should be leg day, I propose Muscle Pants. It uses the same idea as a muscle shirt, with enlarged pant legs for calves to slide into. This idea is thoroughly reasonable, especially for any community that climbs a number of stairs on a daily basis, or maybe lives on some sort of hilltop. Judging from just a few minutes of walking around campus, I’m hardly the only person who needs this innovation.
Until such a time, as we wait for fashion to catch up to our bodies, we, the Georgetown community, are faced with a stark choice. Either we can drop the pretense of fashion by getting to know and judging each other by the content of our character—a notion which I’ve long since understood to be unfeasible here—or we can change our opinions on popular fashion to something widely easier to don. I’m immediately thinking of the ultimate in one-size-fits-all fashion: hammer pants. Think about it. It’s so retro that whenever you walk up to the club like “What up!” people will instantly assume you just returned from the thrift shop. What is more, your calves will be as comfortable as they are in sweatpants, more comfortable even. Wherever you go in hammer pants, you should also, obviously, be dancing nonstop to MC Hammer. The endorphins will feel great.
Upstairs, in my bottom drawer on the left hand side, lies my pair of Nantucket Red skinny jeans. I’ve got matching shoes, a cordovan belt to accent them, a pair of socks with polka dots that pop, and everything else that makes people stop and compliment me on how “fly I’m lookin,’” and how they “wanna wear ‘em.”
I deserve the same right as all other male Hoyas to not have to ignore the strangulation of my calves. I mean, I still want my jeans skinny, just not that skinny.
