It’s officially fall in four days: A major holiday in the land of white girls.
I could not be more excited. I’m really sick of the sweat dripping down my back every time I walk outside for more than five minutes, especially when there’s no ocean I can frolic into like the beach baby that I dream of being.
We(I’m talking to all you fall-loving girls) know why fall is by far the best season out of the year.
Can you say lattes?
Just kidding. I can’t even drink coffee.
But, when it starts to get a little chilly, it’s time to start eating those mashed potatoes and building up a layer of warmth. Layers, ladies, layers.
That little extra pudge of love that falls out of your swimsuit?
Well, it’s fall, so nobody is allowed to give a shit.
Put on your sweater proudly and work those leggings, girl. You’re killin’ it in those boots.
But, it’s not all colorful leaves and cuddling by campfires.
I don’t have any beef with fall specifically, since I’m not genetically allowed to…
But, I do have an issue with pants.
I fucking hate pants.
…Unless they start with yoga-, or sweat-, or pajama-.
Dress Pants: Absolute NO.
Jeans: Dependent, though finding a good pair of jeans is a nightmare.
In my personal experience, the stretchier the better…contemplating checking out the maternity section this year.
…Or the kind that are so high waisted, they almost touch your boobs. Find a pair that is both stretchy and high wasted, and you, my friend, have hit the jackpot.
Look, I know why pants are necessary. Nobody wants to see my overgrown leg hair for four months. Plus, I’m too single for that.
But, it doesn’t change the fact that I hate them. They’re so restricting.
They have buttons and zippers; an uncomfortable necessity that I will never understand.
I really do love fall. I love wearing sweatshirts and boots and the crispness in the air is basically magic.
But I hate pants.