I wore the viral Zara ‘death pants’ for one hour — here’s what happened
Denise O'Donoghue, centre, tries a pair of Zara 'death pants'
Stumbling past the dog, trying desperately to keep my balance, I quietly cursed my dedication to my job. At this rate, it’s going to put me into an early grave, and cause of death will probably be listed as ‘stupid trousers’.
Some context: this morning, in one of our team meetings, we got to chatting about a pair of trousers that is going viral on TikTok for all the wrong reasons. Dubbed the ‘Zara death pants’, they are a polyester pair of flowy, wide-leg trousers, priced at €25.95, that many people around the world have been buying to wear on a hot summer’s day.
The only catch is that they are outrageously long and have caused women to report falls and injuries online. One woman claims to have broken her wrist, another was left embarrassed when her hem got caught in an escalator, pulling down her pants in public. Surely the trousers have been discontinued or recalled, we speculated. On the contrary, we found plenty of sizes available online and — to my almost downfall — lots stocked on Mahon Point, just 10 minutes from my house.
And so, eager fool I am, I hopped into the car, drove to the shopping centre and found a pair to wear for the sake of true public service journalism.
My in-store search actually took longer than expected, as flowy trousers seem to be quite the staple of the fast fashion summer and Zara can be chaotic enough at the best of times, so it took some time to trawl through visually identical pants before finally finding one with a product code that matched the one I was referencing online. I put my hand on a black pair and did not continue to look for another colour option, though it is also available in pink, brown, terracotta, midnight blue, and taupe.
My first stop is the changing room. I had glanced at the measurements listed online to see if the trousers are as long as people make them out to be. The size small in my hand, according to Zara’s website, is 110cm in length from the waistband to the end of the leg. I, on the other hand, am 160cm in length, so the fact that the item in my hand, when held against me, reached from the floor to a few centimetres shy of my armpits was not a surprise thanks to my prior research.
In the changing room, wearing them was another matter. The models online have the waistband sitting low on their hips, with some fabric still pooling at their feet. I had them hoisted up so the band sits on my waist, around the belly button, and still it left swathes of fabric swimming around my feet. Wait, where were my feet?! It took plenty of rummaging to uncover my toes and rather than billow effortlessly, the fabric sat in a lacklustre heap on the floor around me. Had I been a regular customer, I’d have returned it to the rack and shaken my head about unrealistic body standards (we can’t all be 10-foot-tall goddess models), but instead I brought my short frame to the till and headed for home.
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I swapped my shorts for death pants as soon as I was home and, once my boyfriend had stopped laughing at how ridiculous they were, I offered to make us tea.
My walk to the kitchen was challenge number one. My dog Milly likes to weave her way around my legs when I’m walking (is that a general Border Collie herding thing or just a quirk of hers?), but her little zig saw my legs getting tangled in the zag, and it took a long moment to find my balance again. Had I been rushing even a little bit, I’d have been on the floor.
While the kettle was boiling, I walked out to the garden and discovered challenge number two: a light breeze. The thin polyester fabric moves very easily, likely in what is meant to give a cool girl, breezy vibe. However, on me, it just meant wildcard fabric flapping about and, given how light and snaggy the fabric is, it kept catching on leaves and other surfaces that I’ve literally never considered a hazard before. I nearly tripped because the pant leg snagged on a leaf, for goodness sake. I gathered up my hems and moved back inside.
Back in the kitchen, I realised lifting the fabric while walking was very helpful but it comes with a couple of downsides. Firstly, I looked daft. Secondly, the inside of the pockets (yes, it has pockets, but it’s not the moment of unifying girlhood it usually is, don’t get excited) is also lined with the same shiny polyester and they aren’t very deep, so my gentle lift meant the phone I had sitting in one pocket was projected out of the pocket and crashed to the floor. My phone case saved me from an unwanted expensive repair or replacement, but mentally I added broken phones to the broken bones these pants could cause.

When I work from home, my desk is upstairs, so returning to the laptop with a full cup of tea in one hand and a tricky juggle of a snack and my phone combined in the other (I no longer trust the pockets to protect my phone and don’t want to see it bounce down every step) meant I couldn’t do my silly little lady walk with the extra fabric gathered up to prevent a trip. And oh, how I wished I had more hands.
While I didn’t fall, I moved at a glacial pace. One foot would land on a step, followed by another, both pinning down extra fabric, a little more with each step. The result was a waistband that was being pulled ever lower and no hands free to wriggle the fabric loose and protect my modesty. I was never so thankful to not be in public. My mind went back to one image on Zara’s website of one model wearing these trousers atop a jagged rock. Is she okay? Did she get down safely? Is she still there, scared of taking a tumble?
Eventually, I reached the top of the stairs, made it to my desk, and vowed that an hour was enough time spent with these trousers.

These trousers deserve the criticism they’ve been getting online, but so too does anyone who buys a pair knowing they’re dangerously too long for them. Would I like to see a range of leg lengths on high street trousers? Yes, of course. But do I get my trousers taken up if they’re too long before I wear them out? Also yes.
I only wore these around the house and the risk to my own safety was obvious — we need to use a little bit of common sense and stop mindlessly following fashion trends that are made for bodies we don’t have. That’s not a criticism of the bodies we do have, either; I’d just rather choose styles that make me feel good, feel comfortable, and feel like I’m not at risk of a trip to A&E.
I won't see these go to waste, however, and will be bringing them to get altered so they're safe(er) to wear when I give them a second chance.

