Rivkie pulled me out of bed at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. today (I had to get up at 8, you beast), so naturally while I was waiting the customary 20 minutes at the Tube stop for her to show, I stumbled into a Pret to start caffeinating. Choosing a window seat so I could see the Rivmeister roll up, I had the unpleasant sight of watching someone bounce by in leggings and a supremely short coat. Lady, if you're watching this, you owe me the half of my Diet Coke I spit out.
Yes, we all went through the "Are leggings really pants, yo?" debate a few years ago with Lindsay Lohan (whom I still love dearly). But the woman in question shocked me for a different reason: the too-tight bikini pants underneath.
I'm not going to argue about whether it's OK to trot around the city in skin-tight cotton and Lycra, but what I can say is that whether you like it or not, people check out your bum and your bits while you're in public view. The least you can do is see that your rear end does not separate into quarters - if for nothing else than your own comfort. And you men who like the skinniest of skinny jeans, I hate to bust you, but people are watching you and wondering how you keep a low voice in those things.
When we get old enough to pay taxes, we should be old enough to train our eyes to look away when it's polite. But we should also be able to stop ourselves from feeling just a bit happy that the person with the 90 grocery bags can't squeeze into a crowded Tube carriage, from marveling at the size of the piece of cilantro between a stranger's teeth or from laughing at the person who slips on a banana peel (my friend has actually witnessed this - swear).
We're animals with eyes and a brain - we watch things and judge. In fashion, that's the name of the game. Not every day has to be a runway, but the least you can do is realise that you'll never do yourself a favour by making yourself, or your underwear, a public spectacle.