Dear Random Commenter on the Street,
For starters, you are merely the echo of every bi-weekly troll comment that doesn’t get published here. Please do not think you are clever or original.
I humbly bow in judgment before you. Yes, my yoga pants are stretched “too tight” across my ass, and they do make my butt look big. If you say it, it must be so.
We will, of course, ignore the fact that yoga pants often come in letter sizes — S, M, L, XL, 2X, 3X — with, ironically, not a lot of flexibility in what any given manufacturer’s idea of the proper hip-to-waist ratio is. Or that any pants-purchaser whose curves differ substantially from this preconceived ratio will ultimately have to size to one measurement at the expense of the others. (We will ignore completely that even my explanation, taking into account both hips and waist, simplifies a great deal, too much so to be a functional model for some.)
We will, of course, ignore the fact that at some point, an imbalance of the curve ratio is going to cause some fit imperfections, even when spandex is involved. Even spandex can’t argue with cold, hard math.
We will ignore the fact that yoga pants aren’t exactly a clothing item one has tailored.
You know what? We will even ignore the fact that my ass did not feel strained in these pants at all. In fact, I find them quite comfy — which is perhaps why I wear them out in public on bad pain days. (Also, who are we kidding? In this city, people wear yoga pants out in public all the freaking time. I wonder if you comment like this to everyone, of if you found my body uniquely offensive on this day.)
We will potentially even ignore the elephant in the room, which is… The reason my butt looks big? Is because my butt is big. This is not actually a secret, nor is it a problem for me. Furthermore, I’m not sure there are any pants I could wear that would make my butt look invisible… even if I wanted that as my strange fashion statement.
You know, I’m feeling generous today. I think we will even ignore the fact that to stare at a stranger’s behind and then comment on their clothing choices in public is rather presumptuous, rude, and — quite frankly — creepy behavior. But this moment, as I am writing, I will be gracious enough to ignore how easy it would have been to slide your eyes away from my arse, how unoppressive it would have been to simply keep your internal monolog from accidentally — it was an accident, I’m sure — from slipping out your lips and flying into my ears.
So with all that (un)said and (un)done, I guess there’s really nothing left to talk about, is there?
