New Year, New Job. New Problem. by Catherine Bennetto
I’m a published writer now. Yay! And so in celebration I did not do what I thought I’d do (buy jewellery then get drunk), no, I embarked on a quest. I was just going to pop to the shops to get something comfortable I could write in that wasn’t pyjamas or yoga leggings but Anna Wintour, and all below her, had other plans.
Must all casual trousers be dropped crotch?
First of all ‘dropped crotch’ is not a coupling of words I am comfortable saying. It reminds me of one of the warnings they give you when you’re pregnant and learning about the potential hazards of labour: the one where your uterus comes out along with the baby. What’s that called? Excuse me while I google….
Uterine Inversion. *Shudder*
Anyway, I feel the same about a dropped crotch as I do about a Uterine Inversion. Grossed out and uncomfortable.
I didn’t even wear MC Hammer Parachute Pants the first time around. I stayed firmly outside the fashion circle and stuck with my homemade tracksuit in a shade of fresh dog poo that, for some inexplicable reason, I adored.
Now I find myself writing as a day job and, seeing as I grew out of the poo-coloured tracksuit approximately 26 years ago, I need attire suited to the conditions: sitting at home.
Pyjamas bottoms (flannel/flamingos/fronds) send the wrong message. To both house callers and myself. I need a physical indication my working day has begun. I require something with a fair amount of give so I can be comfortable in my various writing poses: on sofa/legs folded, lying down/laptop on lap/neck straining forward like tortoise, curled in the swivelly egg chair (most likely swivelling like 4 year old), atop a Swiss ball at a desk/feet flat on the floor/laptop at eye height/core engaged at 25% maximum effort (the only position my Pilates teacher is aware I do).
So I began the writing trouser pursuit. And the overwhelming stock in stores is the aforementioned dropped crotch horror. Am I the ONLY one over 30 who doesn’t want to look like Justin Bieber?
My sister says I need to buy the saggy crotch trousers and get over it. But I’ve decided not to. I feel my time is best spent giving up on the so far fruitless quest and sewing my own ‘writing trousers’. And by that I mean getting Mum to do it. Then I can relax and get on with my actual New Year, New Problem. Book Two’s plotline.
Yes, I know there are bigger problems in the world other than my clothing challenge. There’s Trump for one. And terrorism, and the Brexit debacle, and the rising cost of educating a child, and the fact Miranda no longer writes her show. But my mum can’t fix any of those with her 1970’s Husqvarna.