J. C. Mogensen

Reality with a Healthy Dose of Humor

Ramblings

The Pants Conundrum

Posted on January 16, 2012 at 2:50 PM

If you're reading this then you're probably sitting comfortably in front of a computer. Unless you're reading this in the future using some kind of implanted virtual reality chip while suspended in a vat of man-made amniotic fluid, waiting for the atmosphere to reform so that your human/chimp species can retake the surface of a battered, blistered and burned world. Good luck with that. Those of you reading this who are part of the group still actively trying to murder the planet are likely either at the office (get back to work) or at home. If you're at home then, unlike your work-shirking counterparts, I'm willing to bet you've already taken the necessary steps to get as comfortable as possible. That means that the pizza rolls are next to the diet soda and you've already shed those itchy 'going-out clothes.' Nothing wrong with that.


But, what if you need to leave home after you've gotten comfy? Do you get all dressed up just to make a gas station run to replenish your stash of FRITOS® Jalapeno Cheddar Cheese Dip? Not unless you're incredibly vain you don't. You just march yourself right out the door in that stained hoodie and ill-fitting sweatpants like a boss. You're not out to impress anyone, you just need all 18 servings of that coagulated cheese-ish goodness and you need it now, pride be damned. See, as a society we have a kind of unspoken agreement that what happens at gas stations, stays there. This works well for all of us, whether we're a loving husband making a midnight run to satisfy a pregnant wife's weird cravings, a frazzled mom in her rollers getting a pack of Virginia Slims because that's the only thing kepping her from committing infanticide or a stoner who just needs some Ho-Ho's and Twizzlers to fuel hour twelve of a Skyrim marathon. We all win. For the record, I'm not talking about what happens in truck stop bathrooms because that definitely needs to be reported.

 


 The love notes that promise a magical evening



Just because it's OK to go out in your sweats once in a while doesn't mean you can toss out those low rise jeans or fancy slacks in favor of elastic bands and sweatshirt material. There's a phenomenon in the town I live in where otherwise attractive young people, especially ladies, wear workout clothes to the mall, nice restaurants, funerals (probably) and anywhere else that doesn't have a strict wardrobe policy. I want to point out that I'm not talking about yoga pants because those are awesome. You don't have to get all dudded up to go out, but you're walk of shame doesn't have to last all day either. There's got to be a middle ground that doesn't include baggy cotton pantaloons with words across the ass.


 

 

 

I take the whole sweatpants thing kind of personally because I was traumatized by my father and his love of sweats. My Dad, a hard working man if there ever was one, deserved to be comfortable when he wasn't slaving away late into the night or before even the farmers were up in the morning. To this day, I still don't think my Dad understands exactly what weekends are for. My Dad treated his sweats like they were just another pair of pants and would wear them shopping, while working on the car or anytime my Mom didn't force him to dress up.

 

The problem was that sweats, at least the ones he wore, didn't have pockets so my Dad would just keep his wallet around his ankle, freely flopping around, held back only by the strength of the elastic at the bottom of the leg. It was bad enough when he would throw his leg up on the shopping cart in order to retrieve his billfold from just above his foot, but it was excruciating for me as a teenager to watch him grab his sweats at the waist band, pull them out and drop his wallet right down the front, past his personal bits, allowing it to freefall to its final resting place at the bottom of his leg before letting the elastic snap back into place at his midsection after the transaction was done. This would invariably happen before the mortified eyes of a cute, my-age check-out girl.

 

Thanks Dad.

 

My point is that if you're going out in sweats, you probably don't really need to go out. Unless you're getting the previously mentioned cheese sauce, then, by all means, go.  Exercising your right to be gross might be the only exercise you get.

 

 Canned Heaven

 

This rant brought to you by the letters W,I,M and P. As in, "Written In My Pajamas."

 

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5 Comments

Reply Alan
5:30 PM on January 17, 2012 
Thanks for sharing a great read! Can remember a time gowing up when a favorite pair of sweats was as important a part of our wardrobes as a favorite pair of jeans. Cheers!
Reply J. C. Mogensen
11:03 AM on January 17, 2012 
Jenny Milchman says...
Whole days go by when I don't get out of my jammies. You should see me when I'm editing. It's lucky those jammies make it on.

Love the actively out to murder the planet. Oy. I'm going to unplug.


During Holidays my girls will ask if they can have a "pajama day." I don't let 'em unless they're sick because I'm afraid it will set a bad precedent. I shudder at the idea of them walking through the mall one day with their friends while their butts act as billboards for 'Juicy' or 'Pink.' Obviously, the rules don't apply to me......
Reply J. C. Mogensen
10:58 AM on January 17, 2012 
Cassandra says...
LMAO at your dad's brilliant storage solution. Why don't more of us keep things in the ankles of our sweatpants? Everyone should do this, damn it!

That's my Dad, always the innovator. Those sweatpants were single-handedly responsible for my not dating until I was 16. That and the fact the he would call me "pumpkin" whenever my classmates were around.
Reply Cassandra
6:47 AM on January 17, 2012 
LMAO at your dad's brilliant storage solution. Why don't more of us keep things in the ankles of our sweatpants? Everyone should do this, damn it!
Reply Jenny Milchman
7:51 PM on January 16, 2012 
Whole days go by when I don't get out of my jammies. You should see me when I'm editing. It's lucky those jammies make it on.

Love the actively out to murder the planet. Oy. I'm going to unplug.