Leggings ARE Pants, Sweetie Pie

“PSA for my fellow grocery shoppers. Leggings are NOT pants.

Especially when you’re a grandmother.”

I saw this post on Facebook a few hours ago and it has been irking me no end ever since. Two points of disagreement. Why aren’t leggings pants? They cover your legs. Isn’t that what pants do? And, of course, the second point is what do you mean “…especially when you’re a grandmother?”  Are there words to respond to this? Not around here. I’ve been searching for words for a while and haven’t come up with any except the failsafe WTF which I resolved at New Year’s to use much less often or not at all so I’d stopped being classified as a cute, cranky grandma blogger. I am always reaching for a higher level of sophistication.

Before I even saw this post, I’d spent a fair amount of time this week thinking about clothes, particularly shoes and boots. Inspired by Michelle Obama’s insanely fabulous Inaugural leggings boots (ok, I guess since she is not yet a grandmother), I’ve been thinking about favorite boots and shoes of days gone by, wondering if I can balance on 3 inch boot heels in the snow, feeling cheeky at the thought of sitting at my desk, rocking those Michelle boots, opening the latest mail from yet another insurance company hot to get my Medicare Part D coverage business. It is a world of confusion, my little brain. You wouldn’t want to live here.

When my grandmother was 64, she had a bra that had at least ten fasteners. I know because I would see it hanging on the clothes line like the freshly washed sail of a small sailboat. She wore dresses with a belt that cinched under her very ample chest, support hose and lace-up black shoes with one inch heels. If she ever thought of herself as one hot tamale, you’d never get a glimmer of that. I can’t quite remember but I don’t even think she worried about keeping her seams straight.

Is that what I should be doing now? Am I supposed to morph into peasant clothes, button my shirt up to my neck, wear sensible pleated pants (no leggings) and shuffle off to Buffalo in my orthopedic shoes? WTF? (New Year’s resolution twice violated)

One of my fondest memories – and there is no accounting for what sticks in one’s mind – is going to a faculty party with my graduate student husband soon after we were married in 1969. I don’t remember what dress I wore but I remember the fishnet stockings and the amazing heels. I can’t imagine what possessed me to wear the fishnets to such an occasion but I did. I also sat on someone’s lap and smoked a cigar. I remember the night as a happy one but I’m betting there was mortification in there for someone. For some reason, I was immune.

I think it was the fishnet stockings that were my firewall. Who can  mess with you if you have the balls to wear fishnet stockings to a faculty party? Seriously.

A few weeks ago during a fairly difficult professional day, a colleague remarked that I looked nice. I don’t get a huge amount of compliments anymore from people who aren’t relatives so it’s nice to get one, especially from a guy who’s a lot younger. It’s part charity and part politics, but who cares?

“These are my war clothes,” I told him.

Black skirt, black jacket with black leather, black tights, and black boots.

But no leggings.

I’m no fool. I know what’s age appropriate.