Column by Eloise Lynch. E-mail [email protected].

Along with child birth and lingering sexual inequalities, women in this country must contend with the momentous pain in the rear that is women’s pants (pun kind of intended).

To be sure, pants are much celebrated by my gender. Long gone are the days of corsets and dresses and good riddance. We’ve come a long way.

But I think we still have a ways to go. Namely, we need to revolutionize the styling of women’s pants.

“Low-rise skinny jeans” is the style you’ll find on all the shelves these days, and there are two things terribly wrong with it.

The first is “low-rise.” This misleading term indicates that the waist of the pants doesn’t really “rise” at all, but falls low down on the hip. Unlike the flattering high-waisted pants of previous generations, “low-rise” pants cup the layer of fat that any woman who eats daily accumulates on her belly and props it up — accentuates it much like a push-up bra accentuates a bosom.

The result is problematic. Do you know what a muffin top is? It’s the shelf of fat that hangs over the pants as a result of the low-rise waist, and it’s a phenomenon that plagues pretty much all American women — it’s plaguing me as I write this.

The second is “skinny.” The term itself is maddening, seeming to promise to transform you into a lithe, elegant goddess the moment you slip into the pants. In reality, after struggling for fifteen minutes to shimmy into the tiny things, you’ll discover [red faced and puffing] the pants, in fact, make you seem less skinny than to begin with.

They squeeze your softer areas into odd creases and bulges, and if there’s a trendy little hole scuffed into them, you can bet that your fat will be oozing out of it.

If you’re dumb enough to take a pair home like me, you’ll encounter further unfortunate results. Like the traditional Japanese kimono, skinny jeans constrict your movements considerably; you won’t be able to run and play flag football like Brett Favre does in those Wrangler commercials.

In fact, you won’t even be able to bend down far enough to put your socks on—start practicing picking things up with your toes now. And just imagine a romantic moment with your hubby—things are getting hot and heavy and you’re plucking garments from each other like petals from a red rose. Now imagine his fumbling attempts to pry your skinny jeans from your body. His gasping, heave-ho motions may ruin the mood, as will the pink creases left behind on your skin by the demon pants once he rips them off. What’s that, baby? A large mole? A spot of ringworm? An oddly placed third nipple?

Why no, that’s the button mark my skinny jeans have carved into my flesh.

For the love of holiday shopping, give this woman some pants that will fit flatteringly and comfortably—with pockets, by the way. Until then, I will complain a lot and wear stretch pants that show my panty lines.