When I go out (and not even out-on-the-town out, just like out-to-the-grocery-store out), I generally have to try on about six different outfits until I find the one I like. It's a long, meticulous process. Last night, I was in the middle of said process, pulling out all the clothes in my closet and periodically yelling out that I have nothing to wear, when a (fashionable) friend suggested I wear leggings.
I was indignant. I couldn't wear leggings, I said. Who did he think I was?
I still have them in my closet, of course. Several pairs. I've worn them to death since my freshman year of college (three years ago -- I still remember trying to wear them at home in California over Christmas break; my mother was shocked to see the gruesome 80s trend revival). But in true Emily form (and I suppose, true fashion form), I've grown tired of them.
At the risk of poorly imitating Carrie Bradshaw, asking really important life questions in a column, I've started thinking about this...
... Are we all done with leggings?