I had it all planned out, and it was an awesome plan. I was going to spend the entire winter break off from school doing absolutely jack shit. And I was going to wear nothing but over-sized T-shirts and sweatpants for the entire nine days. Here’s where my plan fell apart: first, all of my T-shirts are from marathons I ran several years ago, so when you go from being a bad-ass marathon runner to a writer who literally sits on her ass for as many as eleven hours a day, those oversized T-shirts start to resemble the tank top that Hooters waitresses wear. Second, I forgot to buy sweatpants.
I know, you would think that someone like me would already own a full wardrobe of sweat-clothes in various coordinating colors, but alas, there’s a reason that I have none. Because my husband is a jerk.
He strictly forbids anything even resembling sweatpants to cross the threshold of our house, and I mean even jersey-weight fabrics are not allowed. Even on the kids. Even when the school requires them to wear this sweatsuit thing with the school logo on the chest for PE class. No. No sweatpants. Their little stick legs can turn blue in the cold of the winter gym classes, or as he so sagely instructed, they would keep warm if they exercised harder.
I haven’t completely figured out his aversion to sweatpants, except that even I’m willing to admit they are the romance equivalent of the chastity belt. Once you throw on sweatpants, it’s a slippery slope to the day you’re no longer dying your roots or bathing. But that is what makes them awesome. You get the feeling of wearing your pajamas all day, with the smug satisfaction of knowing a) you did actually get dressed and b) you are still classy-looking enough to go to Walmart if you run out of milk.
But sexy faux pas be darned, I was going to enjoy my vacation swaddled in fleecy goodness, by golly! Except I didn’t remember my plan until day six, at which time I looked around and realized that I don’t own any. I raced to Walmart (we were also out of milk) and grabbed a pair, mildly surprised to see that they now sell them in the automotive section, and got home with them, ready to put them on before my husband knew what hit him.
And they sucked. Besides leaving lint all over the eyelet edging around my underwear, someone apparently thought there was an elastic shortage because these resemble very chunky yoga pants with flowy bellbottom ankles, letting cold air ride up my calves. When I sat down, they rode up slightly like a normal pair of pants would, exposing my legs to the elements and exposing the world to the fact that I also didn’t plan to shave during this vacation, all due to the lack of circulation-cutting ankle elastics.
Sadly, my husband saw me in the pants and nearly choked on the mouthful of food he had just bitten. He leaned in, peered at the fabric, and rubbed it between two fingers as though appraising the quality of fine silk. He looked back at me and narrowed his eyes.
“So. That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he demanded. I nodded defiantly, prepared to defend my choice of lounge wear to the death.
He put down the plate of food he was holding, glared at me for only a moment, then proceeded to remove his jeans, reveling in walking around the house in just his nasty-looking underwear in the most unhygienic rendition of “two can play that game” ever. So we basically both looked like trailer trash, but I was warm. Win.