Pants: My kingdom for a pair — that fits.

Here’s the skinny on shopping for a gentleman with chicken legs

Last week, I went shopping in search of new pants.

That entire sentence is something most men never really want to say — or read.

Why? Because it contains two words that strike boredom into the hearts of almost all men: shopping and pants.

Most guys I know would rather stop off at the dentist on their way to a vasectomy than go shopping. OK, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. They might skip the dentist.

My theory about this is that men are conditioned by evolution to hunt. That means they get together with a few other guys, walk out into the woods and open several beers around a camp fire. No, I mean they hunt down a prey animal, kill it, bring it home and eat it.

They don’t, as you do in shopping, walk endlessly around looking for “prey” (a.k.a. pants) over and over again and then stop for a frappuccino. Which, by the way, explains the way most guys look: like they bought their pants at Walmart along with some zucchini.

The reason I was out pants hunting — which sounds a lot better than “shopping” — was that I couldn’t help but notice that many of the pants in my closet had more pleats than a square-dancing skirt. A few older pairs could double as parachutes if the legs filled up with air. (Note to self: Invent parachute pants.) I like nice clothes and I think it’s important to dress as though you are at least in the current decade, so it was time for some new, trimmer trousers.

This led me to a store we’ll call Button’s Hay to avoid any legal issues and to allow me, one day, to redeem my Button’s Hay points, a decade or so from now, for a really nice vegetable peeler.

Anyway, I was in the men’s department looking for pants, which I assumed would be a relatively simple procedure. I actually know my size, well at least the size I lie about, so I just needed a style that was somewhere reasonably between skin tight and something Aladdin would wear.

I wandered up to a literal, floor-to-ceiling wall of pants. I know a little bit about clothes and of course, I know there are a several historical styles of pants, most of which are ridiculous and unwearable, but nevertheless exist.

Take “painter pants” for example. Except for 17 minutes in the 80s, no sane person who is not holding a brush would wear painter pants.

Ditto “Capri pants” which are tight-fitting trousers that end abruptly and without explanation halfway down your calf, They were invented by an Italian designer who it seems was interested in naked calves and worn by Mary Tyler Moore, bull fighters and occasionally by tennis star Rafael Nadal, but God knows why. These are also called pedal pushers (if you ride a bike) and clam diggers (if you dig clams while riding a bike) and just generally for people who insist on ridiculous names for their clothes.

The pants on the shelves were technically all long pants, but when I started looking for my size I realized that at some point someone had decided that there was no such thing as just “pants.”

Now — and I am not making this up — there were “Classic Fit,” Regular Fit,” “Straight Fit,” Relaxed,” “Tapered,” “Flex Tapered,” “Slim Tapered,” “Skinny Tapered,” “Slouch Tapered” and “Athletic.” There may have been a few more, but I got dizzy and had to sit down.

Foolishly, I tried Athletic. I found them, to my chagrin, baggy in the thighs and butt. I told the salesperson this. “Yes, they’re made for people with muscular legs. That’s why they’re called Athletic,” he said. “How would you describe your legs? That might help.” “Chickenlike,” I said. “Try Skinny Tapered,” he said. I did and they seemed to fit, I thought. At home, I tried them on and then asked my wife the question usually directed AT men, not posed BY men. “How do these pants look?” I said. Sensing a once-in-a-lifetime moment, she said, “Like you’ve got really skinny pants on chicken legs.”

I might try Capris after all.

I like nice clothes and I think it’s important to dress as though you are at least in the current decade.