"I Wear Pants!"

There is no look more ghastly than a fitted velour pastel-colored sweat suit with the brand stitched on the chick’s ass (“Juicy!” “Pink!” “B’Holé!”), accompanied with a pair of Uggs. Astoria is teeming with these bitches on the weekends; their hair expertly coiffed, nails did, wearing boots that turn their feet into little suede 1987 Dodge Caravans. Ladies. If you went so far as to curl your hair and shellac it with some White Rain hair spritzer, why can’t you go that extra mile and put on pants that button and zip?

I’m guilty of rockin’ a sweatpant outside of my apartment or the gym on occasion. I’ve even had the gall to leave my borough dressed like that. But when I do it, it’s different. You can bet your sweet ass there’s nary a word on mine. And I sure didn’t goop Dippity-Do all up in my hair. Chances are I didn’t even brush it.

Now, I don’t wear SPs in that Cathy “Ack I’ve given up, pass the chocolate, ack ack” constraint. It’s more defiant, rebellious. I’m a punk rocker in track pants. A suffragette in sweats.

I’ve been to LA once, 13 years ago. I stayed for two weeks, and it was about 10 days too long. Like any visitor, I was in awe of the legion of supercool vintage cars up and down the Boulevard: Karmann Ghias, Dylan McKay Porsches, Brandon Walsh Mustangs, etc. They were sweet. But isn’t the point of having a kickass ride being the hot shit amongst all the lame, conventional cars? If you’re just another cherry red fish in a sea of Cameron Frye’s dad’s Ferraris, then what makes you so bloody special? Wouldn’t the rare bird be the guy behind the wheel of a Plymouth Sundance?

When Mary Kate and Ashley I’m the Cute One! Olsen morphed from tween-age cash cows into iconic, Marlboro Red-smoking gollums, their first major dent in fashion was reviving the Bohemian look. MK’s burlap caftan was Balenciaga, but twin sisterfriend still looked like a street urchin. Aside from the $2,500 price difference, how am I any less chic in my over-sized men’s Fruit of the Loom heather gray hooded sweatshirt?

I’ve always considered myself a fashion trendsetter. As a four year-old, I sported my Wonder Woman Underoos over my Osh Kosh B’Gosh corduroys. Six years later, Gaultier’s made underwear as outerwear for Madonna.

I clearly remember my first day of freshman year in Roeland Park, Kansas at Bishop Miege High School (go Stags!), where I was referred to as “Jenny Frank’s cousin-the-girl-in-fucking-knee-socks-and-Mary Janes-what-the-hell.” That summer Clueless is released and come sophomore year those bitches are in argyle socks. As IF!

After high school, when the other Lady Stags (yes, Miege’s female athletes were tranny deer) either burned or packed away their tartan skirts, I kept mine. My style was Latent Lolita: a look for the girl everyone thought was a total dyke in high school who blossomed into a cigarette smokin’ lily white perma-virgin sex pot. This was the late ’90s-early aughts and everybody wore Baby Tees. I had Aladdin Sane in glitter, Joan Jett in blue and red, and Blondie in black and gold. The shrunken tees barely stretched across my ample chest. Poor Debbie Harry looked like she had Down Syndrome. I paired the shirts with the Catholic school uniform or vintage crinoline slips, stockings and Chuck high tops. Instead of a purse I carried a metal Powerpuff Girls lunchbox. In retrospect, I looked a hot mess, but it was my hot mess, and I reveled in expressing myself through clothing. In those clothes, I told the world “I don’t give a fuck that I look like Baby Jane at 19! I’m infantile and starved for attention! Isn’t that so attractive?!? Someone, for the love of God, make out with me! I just want to know what kissing’s like!!!”

Maybe if I’d been a tiny little flat-chested Japanese girl, it would’ve been adorable, but I was a corn-fed Midwesterner with a pony keg torso and boobs too big for my frame.  Not hot.

In 2006, I was still a Latent Lolita, and my look landed me in the pages of fashion rag Glamour. I was in Austin, TX, performing with my burlesque troupe as a back up dancer for the ever-delightful Peaches. I felt like a superstar, denigrating myself for no pay (yay post-feminism). A few months later, I was sitting on my porch with my best friend and roommate Hadley and our friend Nancy Pants, and I got a call from my fellow Burly Q pal Taylor.

“Are you anywhere close to a Glamour magazine?” she asked.

I’m kinda by a drug store, so I’m as close as anyone could be,” I said. “Why, Taylor, are you in it?”

“No. You are. You’re a Don’t, Megan. A Glamour Don’t.”

The three of us hopped in Hadley's Rodeo and made a beeline for the nearest Walgreens'. There I was on page 191 of the June 2006 issue. Uma Thurman's on the cover. I even made it to their end-of-year coffee table book, Glamour’s Big Book of Dos and Don’ts: Fashion Help for Every Woman. I am “Don’t Dress Like a Little Girl.” It is the greatest achievement of my life thus far.

As I’ve gotten older and more accustomed to my life in New York, my dress has become decidedly more conservative. I live for anonymity. I’m no longer starved for attention. There are people in this city who certainly need it and deserve it more than I do. I’ll still wear a fun dress, but I’m pretty tame. I usually just wear jeans and boots. With shirts that fit. Fucking boring!

And okay, I occasionally go to work in my sweatpants. My office doesn’t have a dress code, and you’re supposed to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, right? Well, I want to be a grad student, so I’m wearing the right uniform. And okay, I confess, I’m not all that noble in my casual wear as I previously avowed.  Sometimes it is a bit of a Cathy moment, but it’s not chocolate, it’s too much vodka from last night’s karaoke sesh in Union Square and I just couldn’t bother to put on pants that fasten this morning. You’re lucky I woke up at all.