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Now that the economy has unravelled and we are in the throes of a global recession, many style watchers have turned their attention to the pressing matter of hemlines. Specifically, are they up or are they down? And what does it mean for the economy?

In my opinion, this is a useless debate. In these dark times, there are far more crucial issues to look at. And chief among them is the issue of leggings, specifically liquid leggings, which are a massive trend this winter in more ways than one.

What are liquid leggings, you ask? Oh, mwaaa-ha-ha. That is the sound of me laughing in a very superior, authoritative way, as if to say, "Dear, dear reader, have you been smoking rock in your basement for the last six months? Liquid leggings are only the biggest celebrity-led trend to hit department stores in several seasons, not to mention a major point of controversy among style commentators everywhere. Miley Ray Cyrus is wearing them. Nicky Hilton is wearing them. Even wife and mother Katie Holmes is rocking the still-wet spray-paint look. Like duh!"

But this trend is not without its dampening effect. Just like skinny jeans before them, liquid leggings are one of those fads that cause frustration. They are neither flattering nor practical, and yet they are certain to hang on until spring. So what to do?

But first, for the official dictionary definition: Liquid leggings - noun [lik-wid leg-ings] 1. A close fitting stretch pant made from material that imitates the state of molecules moving freely among themselves, as in water. 2. Shiny stretchy tights made of leather or synthetic something-or-other. 3. Butt terrorism.

Given the state of the economy, one can't help but marvel at the emergence of a trend so flashy, so venereal, so irrationally decadent as this one. Who was the evil gay man who thought it up and what did his mother do to make him hate us so? And the sick irony of the name! It almost makes you think the fashion world saw it coming. Either that or they didn't see it coming at all. Either way, does it really matter?

This is the question female fashion slaves everywhere must ask ourselves - before heading straight to the mall to buy a pair, obviously.

And that is exactly what I did last weekend. I was back in Toronto for a friend's wedding and found myself sucked into Holt Renfrew by the force of deflation (bring it on, I say!). Once inside, I was relieved to note that the department store looked exactly the same as it had pre-Armageddon - the Christmas lights were just as twinkly, the status handbags just as extortionate and my fellow shoppers just as perpetually surprised-looking. Clearly, all is right with the world - if the Christmas shopping scene at Holt's is any measure.

It was only when the girl on the third floor admitted that they were completely sold out of liquid leggings that things went pear-shaped, so to speak.

"These are awesome, and kind of similar," she said, guiding me over to a pair of tight leather stove-pipe pants. And while I did get a little misty (reminiscing about the nineties), I didn't bother trying them on. My big toe wouldn't have fit inside the waistband.

On I moved, toward the shoe department, where I have been known to spend hours petting the Pradas and murmuring to the Manolos. Among the other exotic flora and fauna was a drop-dead gorgeous shop girl wearing a pair of (what else?) leggings of the liquid variety.

"I got them upstairs," she said in a husky Latin accent when I inquired after her shrink-wrapped thighs. "At first, I bought a much cheaper pair at American Apparel, but then I tried these and they fit better." She showed me the stirrup heel that fit perfectly into her four-inch black Louboutin spikes. Even as a resident of the planet Het, I had to admit she looked hot. Part of my attraction, admittedly, was that she had just uttered two of my favourite combined words in the English language: "much" and "cheaper." American Apparel, here I came.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing in a change room staring at my muffin top swelling out of a pair of what can best be described as black plastic long johns. Not good, I thought, but maybe if paired with a dress or a long sweater? And then I turned in the mirror for the rear view.

What I saw then, dear reader, was so unspeakably horrifying it made me think all the commentators were right. Maybe the world as we knew it really was coming to an end. Words like "collapse," "bottoming out" and "disaster" took on a whole new, highly personal meaning. I gathered my coat and ran from the store.

It's a recession, people. The verdict: I'm not feeling liquid.