I believe in sweatpants. I believe in the relief of pulling the loose, pilly, cotton elastic goodness over my legs, my legs that whine with complaints about being exposed by a less cherished skirt, or about the constraining fit of denim jeans. Rawling, Soffe, Tertex, Jerzees—they are all equally great, they all do the trick. I find that they are never inappropriate, always flattering and a pleasure to bear. Mine simply sit in my drawer anticipating my return home, greeting me with the softest amiability, leaping into my arms.
Only my sweatpants fully accept me—they aren’t even upset when I miss my mouth with chicken korma, or my canvas with paint, or my paper with ink. A good pair of sweats can never have too many discolorations or traces of age and old meals. They last through all eternity–if a favorite pair of Levi’s ceases to fit, those trusty old sweats are right there. Always and forever.
These fine pants have a great span of versatility. They can be worn as an additional comfort during an anti-boy ice cream social, but they also serve as a hot get-up on a Saturday night, when nothing sounds more appealing than staying in and watching three seasons of “Friends” consecutively. On average, I can be found wearing sweatpants for a solid fourteen hours each day. We were bound to get intimate.
My faithful leg protectors could care less about the mundane but easily judged faults in my persona. They are indifferent about my appearance and my lack of eloquence. They don’t mind if I accidentally get bangs because the hair dresser can’t decipher my nervous mumbling, or if I find myself spooning away a full pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream just because. They hardly mind if I watch Soap Network every day after school, even in their presence. They wouldn’t so much as giggle if I were to sleep on a plane with my mouth agape, seated next to a Heath Ledger look-alike. No, my sweats and I have a deeper bond than words can do justice, than comparison can convey.
Our love for one another flows as deep as twenty Rift Valley lakes. Our relationship burns as hot as the center of the sun, at a toasty 15 million degrees Celsius. Our friendship holds as many fond memories as would ten wedding montages.
It may be considered unhealthy for me to place such an emphasis on my favorite relaxing outfit, perhaps a sign of a future spinster. But it would be wrong not to value such comfort, both emotional and physical. Nothing offers me elasticity, warmth, and pure contentment as a pair of good sweatpants does. Everyone needs something to look forward to at the end of the day, be it a spouse or a nice glass of merlot. I’m pretty pleased with my daily dose of sweatpants therapy.
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