When I was 18, going before I knew better, I thought I abhorred wearing pants. While my companions faltered between True Religion pants (for going out) or Soffe shorts (for everything else), I was vainglorious in my “capricious” dresses and skirts—like the vintage-style ones Zooey Deschanel reliably wore on New Girl. In the winter I’d incorporate tights and envision I wasn’t cold. My summers were spent focusing on that a self-assertive breeze would spin in and reveal my bits to the world. I was both unhinged to be seen as a unique, innovative sort and tense that, God help us, maybe I was overdressed.