On Wednesday, after several days of planning, plotting and just-plain procrastinating, I bought my first pair of Carhartts. You know what I’m talking about, the heavy work pants that are impossible to fold straight from the dryer (even worse off the line) because their properties ensure durability and not a small amount of inflexibility. My fiance has several pairs because he’s a man who does real work, but until recently (until the chickens, and the barn extension and five hundred other projects (several of which include the use of the tractor), I felt that I could get by.
My Carhartt bias was largely formed in college. Where frat boys who had never lifted anything heavier than a keg wore Carhartts to the bars to show off their latent manliness to the sorority girls who found them a rustic change from the usual preppy attire that was worn at all other social events. As a scholarship girl from a small, rural town, the sight of freshly-pressed Carhartts worn with a pop-collared polo was just a bit too much.
So after wearing out several pairs of very nice (and too-expensive-to-be-wearing-to-water-chickens jeans), I went to the local farm store and bought myself a pair of hunter green Carhartts. Not because they’re the most attractive pants in the world (they fit beautifully around the waist but the legs are strangely and awkwardly too wide), or because I ever plan on wearing them into town (heck, no!), but because I see what I’m doing here as real, hard work. And every girl deserves something that will keep her shins safe so she can continue to wear skirts in the summer.