Did you ever have a piece of clothing (I was going to say “garment,” but that sounds too much like “I wear glasses on a chain and read historical fiction.” Which I don’t. Unless it’s historical fiction with hot sex scenes. I know. That was an awesome historical fiction joke.) Sorry. Let’s start over.
Did you ever have a piece of clothing that you thought looked okay in the store, but then you brought home to find that it actually makes you look like Jerome Bettis of the Pittsburgh Steelers (complete with beard)? But you wear it anyway, because either (a) you paid too much for it and feel guilty, (b) you feel sorry for it, or (c) it is just too comfy?
I have a pair of pretend sweat pants like that. I say pretend sweat pants because they are of the sweat-pant genre that is too dressy and unpractical to sweat in, (ever really jog in velour? I thought not.) but is not quite dressy enough for the opera (Portland being the exception, where I believe you could not induce disapproving looks by wearing only a coconut bra, Hello Kitty boxers, swimming goggles and flippers).
I definitely didn’t pay too much for them (I do have a pair of pants that fall into this category. They look like I stole them from Star Jones, but I wear them anyway. Hey, I thought they would shrink!) And I don’t feel sorry for them, although I have possessed garments that fall into this category (See, I’m not afraid of nerd words. Extra points for using “garments” with “possessed” which is just as geeky when not used in the occult sense.) You know the ones – they are so cute, but you don’t have anything to go with them, or you don’t have anywhere cool to wear them, so you end up wearing them to work where everybody asks you if you have a hot date after work, and you have to admit you don’t…..no? Just me? Anyhoo…..
These particular pretend sweat pants are just really comfortable. Not too tight, too loose, too short or too long. Black (slimming!) with white stripes down the sides. Sounds fine, right? But now add another stripe AROUND THE MIDDLE OF THE HIPS. I’m not kidding. Right around the top of the hip bones, right under the belly button, blithely highlighting my belly.
Now after ten years of looking for shirts that don’t hang down to my knees (which seem to be alarmingly close to my waist), I find myself rifling through my drawer looking for a shirt that will cover up this whitewall tire around my waist.
Oh well. You can’t see me from there, so I’m putting ‘em on.