Oh hell no. I may be drunk, but I’m not THAT drunk.
I mean, I get stirrups as a practical matter.
If you’re horseback riding they’re invaluable but I haven’t ridden in years. At this point in my life, if my feet are going in stirrups there will either be a medical professional or a US Senator bearing Scotch involved, and since I don’t live in DC anymore (and don’t have the morals of an alley cat) it’s far more likely to be the former, and while there are a lot of non-fashion references I’m glad to make in my daily ensemble, being prodded by the Frozen Escargot Tongs of The Damned is not one of them.
Plus, I have a grudge against stirrup pants on a personal level.
Let me take you on a little word journey back through the hazy mists of time to November 1989, where a young Miss Plumcake was sitting semi-attentively in Mister Kapusnik’s fifth-grade class. I was semi-attentive because the stirrups of my brand new cow-print stirrup pants ( the ones that precisely matched my equally be-Holsteined mock-turtle halter trapeze top) were bothering my feet. And do you know what happened while I was fiddling about?
The Berlin Wall fell.
Everyone else has great stories to tell about where they were when the Berlin Wall fell and I don’t because MY STUPID STIRRUP PANTS RUINED THE FALL OF COMMUNISM. Now instead of sitting around being wistful about what a special time it was, I can only try to explain to a stunned audience that yes, my grandmother who purportedly loved me decided the best thing to do with a mouthy, chubby girl already a half a foot taller than everyone else in her class would be TO DRESS HER UP AS A COW.