If Skin-Tight, Orange, Metro Pants Were a Woman...

If skin-tight, orange, metrosexual pants were a woman, she would be that girl from high school who was so gorgeously out of your league. She walked around campus like she was too good for you...because honestly, she was. She was untouchable, like those shiny mannequins wearing those orange pants in the store window, coquettishly mocking you with unattainable "come hither" glances.

You saw her studying under a tree. You thought you'd go sit next to her and strike up a conversation. Then, after an adequate period of time, you'd become friends—maybe more. But then you remembered she was too far out of your league. It was the same sinking realization that H&M didn't make metrosexual, orange pants in a 36/30. Besides, tight pant seams transecting a gigantic mushy posterior would be wholly unattractive.

But still, you thought about going up to her, telling her you thought her beautiful and interesting. But then you remembered that annoyed glances from stunning women hurt more than leg compressions from pants with a crotch that forces your junk down the left pant leg.

No. You stayed away from her. Better leave the suffocatingly pretty women to the star athletes, and better leave the tight, orange pants to the men for whom "butt-crunching" is a verb.

Leaving high school, you knew her class schedule, the page numbers of her yearbook appearances, even the license-plate number on her orange Mustang. But you didn't know the timbre of her voice, how she took her coffee, or if her hair smelt of cherries or peaches. Leaving the store, you could only imagine how ridiculous—and ridiculously sexy—you'd look with a pair of orange tights pasted to your thighs. So you departed without knowing what it felt like to have either one of them touch your legs.