The Orange Pants

Change your wardrobe, change your life

My husband, Jason, has an impressive collection of cat t-shirts. One says “Cats, Not Guns.” Another shows a cat fishing for a mouse in the same pose as the famous Nirvana Nevermind album. He enjoys whimsical sweaters and REI pants, comfortable sneakers, and cozy pullovers. Jason has a marathon t-shirt from 20 years ago and a Steve Hackett concert t-shirt that he proudly wears to Galaxy Hut, his favorite dive bar, when I’m out with the girls.

Jason is exceptionally funny, smart and kind, but fashion isn’t really his thing. In fact, he eschews anything trendy. He once nearly divorced me when I suggested that he buy a pair of the Nike beach sandals favored by jocks and gym rats. He took it as an affront to who he was in his very soul, as if somehow the purchase of these basic bro shoes would transform him into a jacked-up Neanderthal.  

Then we went to France for three weeks.

We had only been in Paris for a few hours when Jason first spotted orange corduroy pants on several fashionable French gents. These guys had style and that je ne sais quoi that drives Americans wild with envy. “Have you noticed all the orange pants guys wear around Paris?” he asked me. I had been oblivious, but Jason was clearly obsessed.

The next day, we took a train to Bordeaux and went in search of the perfect orange pants. We stopped by Galleries Lafayette, and the salesperson tried her best to find orange pants, but the closest she could find was red. We popped in and out of boutiques along Rue Saint Catherine, but the pants eluded us. Then we stumbled on a Ralph Lauren shop where we were welcomed with enthusiastic bonjours. And voila, there they were, right by the entrance, a stack of bright orange corduroy pants. It was meant to be.

Jason conferred with the salesperson in French about his size and did an admirable job of explaining his waist and pant length measurements. I sat there nodding, only understanding a fraction of what was said. Moments later, the salesperson returned with Jason’s size and handed over the burnt orange beauties for him to try on. “Honey, can you come in here and take a look?” The pants looked great, except they were a little long. “Pas de problème!” the salesperson said. “We can have them altered in a few days at no charge.” Jason paid, and we stepped out onto the street. He was beaming. A changed man. “Now I need a tweed jacket to go with them.”

The magic orange pants shifted something in my husband’s psyche. He became more confident and walked with a spring in his step. French Jason started wearing jaunty scarves and sweaters with button-down shirt collars peeking out. He was enthusiastic about getting dressed to go out and seemed more at ease speaking French to the locals.

When we returned to Paris at the end of the trip, we spent hours at Le Bon Marché Rive Gauche looking for the perfect tweed jacket to match the pants. Jason found one jacket that he liked, but he was between sizes. He was crestfallen. This is a man who always buys off the rack and almost never has to have things tailored, unlike me. For our wedding, he bought the first suit he tried on, while it took me months to find a dress.

Eventually, at an independent men’s clothier close to our hotel, Jason found a green and gray tweed jacket with a rich red silk lining that brought the whole ensemble together perfectly. Jason wore his new outfit to dinner on our last night in France. He was indistinguishable from the French men sitting in cafes or sauntering around Saint Germain des Pres. He had arrived.

Now, back in Arlington, the orange cords have been joined by a pair of dark blue corduroy pants and some new shirts. Several ancient t-shirts have met their maker and are slowly being replaced by more fashionable choices. French Jason is here to stay.