I watch my friends anxiously as wrapping paper flies everywhere–I saved their best presents for last, and I can’t wait to see their reactions. With the soft glow of Christmas tree lights reflecting on her face, I see Madge’s expression first: intrigue. And then: confusion. She removes the tissue paper from the box and pulls at the gift. “Okay,” she says, in a measured tone. “Why are you buying me clothing?” But as she pulls further and sees the whole gift, her attitude changes. “OH MY GOD! MY OWN PAIR OF PURPOL PANTS!” Next to her on the couch, Krystal rips her gift open to reveal her pair. “PURPOL PANTS FOR ME? OH, HELL YEAH!” Ah. This was the reaction I was hoping for. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Madge and Krystal met in preschool and have been partners in crime ever since. They’re both five years older than me and impossibly cool. Krystal is my cousin, so I’ve known her my whole life, but I was only just getting to know Madge. (Which is why she thought it was odd to buy personal clothing items for someone you don’t know that well. I’m sure she was expecting some noncommittal Christmas gift. Perhaps a gift card to the local buffet or a violently scented candle.) Much to my delight, Madge and Krystal had taken an interest in me and popped up at my house often. I was fourteen and, quite frankly, not very cool. I was in a huge figure skating phase so whenever they came to visit, I was watching prerecorded performances. I had a list of my favorites—Olympics, World Championships, exhibitions—and I watched them on a steady rotation. I was so obsessed with skating that I practiced ZERO courtesy when I had visitors. Anyone who came over ended up watching figure skating, too. I had no mercy for passive fans and would rattle off the who’s and what’s of the sport and expect my company to keep up. It should be noted that I’d never landed so much as a single axel in my life—but passion is passion.
Perhaps the least cool part about all of this was my wardrobe. As soon as I got home from school, I changed into the same outfit: a royal blue Mickey Mouse shirt so old that the iron-on Disney logo was shredding and a pair of purple pants. I also had frizzy hair, an untamed unibrow and a mouthful of orthodontia. So my chosen outfit did nothing to enhance my appearance. But comfort was my goal, and these purple pants fit the bill. I got them in a bag of hand-me-downs, so I would never find the likes of them again. They were truly one of a kind: made of buttery soft cotton with a wide-legged hem and a forgiving waistband. The purple pants were also an interesting shade of violet; combined with the striking blue color of my shirt, I was one blueberry away from swelling up and being rolled away by the Oompa Loompas. (And, because the Teenage Misfortune Bus hit me with all four tires, I was also a chubby teenager—so even trace amounts of swelling would have rendered me inflatable.)
Once Krystal and Madge became accustomed to my fashion choices, they celebrated them. They decided “Purple” wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the color of a pair of pants so ridiculous, yet so necessary. The girls changed the spelling to “Purpol” and pronounced the word with a strong emphasis on the last syllable. If they walked in and I was still in school clothes, they’d yell, “Where’s the purPOL PANTS?” “Excuse me—I don’t see purPOL PANTS today!” Their pronunciation was more of an event than the actual pants. Even more to their credit, they learned who my favorite skaters were, and when they came over, they had their favorite routines to watch, too.
When Christmas came around, I didn’t even question what to buy the girls. My family spent every Christmas Eve with Krystal’s family, and Madge always stopped over, too. I knew they’d both be in the same room—it was too perfect. Thus, I set out to find a close replica of the purpol pants I had, but it was a harder assignment than I anticipated. I had to buy a different pair for each of them—duplicate pairs in the same shade did not exist. But I made sure the material was soft and the waistband wasn’t constricting. (If a book and movie were written about us, it would undoubtedly be titled The Sisterhood of the Flexible Waistbands.)
When the call went out that it was time to open presents, I dashed to the tree to grab my boxes. I handed them to Krystal and Madge and watched with giddy excitement. After their initial screams, they ran upstairs to change into their very own purpol pants. Of course, I brought my pair, and we reconvened around the tree, dressed like violet-colored triplets. We did our best to explain the lore behind the pants; not everyone in the family understood, but they seemed happy for us. For months afterward, I would get a call from one of the girls, who only had one thing to say: “There ain’t nothing like these purPOL PANTS!”
After a few years, it was time to get rid of the pants. They were full of holes and unwearable. I didn’t consult with the girls; I just threw them away. The day I told Madge, she clutched her chest like I’d just shot her. “No more purPOL pants?” Though she was reeling from this emotional bullet, I told her the pants had served their purpose, and, in more ways than one, they truly had. If fashion choices are a form of self-expression, there’s nothing better than finding the right people who see what you’re doing, wonder if maybe you’re crazy—and then invite themselves in anyway.
This article originally appeared in the September/October 2026 issue of (585).
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