Elettra Rossefugni Wiedemann

Wait. WAIT. Stop the presses.

Does Isabella Rossellini know what her daughter is doing to herself? When Irina Pantaeva pulled this trick in such elaborate, Seussian fashion, yes, it was scary, and sure, I thought maybe I'd accidentally spiked my Diet Coke with absinthe. But its saving grace was that the outfit was SO insane, clearly nobody would try to force it upon me in any real fashion. It didn't threaten my own pelvis in any real way. But now that similar pants appear to be making the rounds in a more fashion-industry-baiting black, I'm frightened. What if, unsuspecting, I walk into Bloomingdale's and get assaulted by the visual of them on a mannequin? What if Lucky or Elle suddenly tries to convince the world that nouveau Hammer pants are slimming and that we totally should pay $300 for a crotch that sags to the knees and doubles as a place to stash twenty flasks?

Wait, dang, I almost talked myself into it with the flask thing. I need to remind myself that, flask conveniences aside, nobody, BUT NOBODY, needs to walk around town looking like a refugee from a new performance by Cirque du Soleil -- really, the Dr. Seuss of live theater -- that's called something like "Morbidiste," and is set entirely to a marathon of C.S.I. episodes.