“HOLA LOVERS. So. I have heard it for years. ‘Jeans are so comfy, Jennifer.’ ‘Look into pants.’ I have looked, lovers. I have looked like the sun looks for plants to nurture. I have looked like Marc used to look for blood banks. I have looked like lovers look for me. I have looked and looked and looked into pants, and I have found pants to be wanting, and do you know why? Because they are pants. It is the PANTS that are the problem with pants. So constricting! You would not tell an artist to block their instrument, and thus, you cannot tell a heavenly body to smother itself. (And no, lovers, catsuits do not count. Catsuits are my other skin. Do not bore me with silly trifles.) And so I have, like all great leaders, like all benevolent heroes, found a compromise. FOOT PANTS. They are not just boots, lovers. No. They are jeans with belts, one for each of my shins, so that I give you all of the satisfaction of feeling heard, but give myself all of the satisfaction of not really wearing pants. You know who else is not wearing pants? Alex, my little fastball, because I took them and sent them to the shoemaker man and made them into these, so that I can text him naughty jokes like, “I AM IN YOUR PANTS,” with one of those cartoons in the shape of a bat. What are they called? Emojos? EJLos? It doesn’t matter. Now bow down to me quickly before I have to scamper back to the hyperbaric chamber. You wouldn’t want The Lopez to crack, would you? No.”
