When my husband came home from work and found me with my naked rear end hanging out from my closet, I’m sure he thought it was an invitation. “How you doin’?” he drawled, his voice half muffled, because my head was buried in a mound of clothes.
“Don’t. Even.” I growled, emerging from the bottomless pit of the closet. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I think you’re missing something.” He gestured with feigned shock at the unclothed bottom half of my body. “For example…pants?”
And that was when I lost it.
“PANTS?” I yelled. “You’re right, husband. I’M NOT WEARING ANY PANTS. How incredibly observant of you! Would you like to know why I’m not wearing any pants? Would you?”
My husband looked frightened. He took a step back.
“Um. Yes? No. Okay, yes?”
“I’m not wearing any pants because I can’t find the only pair of REAL pants I own.” I felt like this was overtly obvious, but from my husband’s expression, I could tell he was confused.
“Darling. You have lots of pants. You wear pants every day. With the exception of now, I rarely see you NOT in pants. In fact…I wish saw you in pants LESS..”
“Oh, I have those kind of pants. Comfy pants. Yoga pants. The most glorious pants in the world. ” I mused dreamily. “But I don’t have real grown up pants. The horrible kind that people wear to grown up things. Khakis. Blue jeans.” I almost choked on the last two words. “And I have to go this band concert tonight. And my daughter is telling me that I HAVE TO WEAR PANTS!” I might have wailed the last part.
Pants, in my opinion, are literally the worst.
Fifteen years ago I gave up the responsibilities of commuting to work, sitting in a desk chair and wearing “real” pants, to stay home with my oldest daughter. The more children I had, the longer I stayed home and drifted from the schedule of 9- 5, the less I felt like getting dressed in real clothes. Did my son care if I wore pajamas all day? Hardly. Did the UPS guy look twice if I answered the door in sweatpants and a paint spattered t-shirt. Of course not. I dressed for comfort, for ease of movement.
All my outfits had to meet these simple requirements:
Can I wear it all day, to bed and then all day tomorrow?
Is the material such that no one will notice if I spill coffee, breastmilk or child snot on it today?
Is the material such that no one will notice if I spilled coffee, breastmilk or child snot on it yesterday?
If the outfit in question met all the criteria, I wore it. For like three days straight.
Because of this, over the past 15 years I’ve amassed a beautiful wardrobe filled with clothes that are most appropriate for the gym, cleaning out the garage and an occasional pop-up swap meet. And you know what? It’s GLORIOUS.
Of course, I like variety, just like the rest of the female species. Even within my closet of extremely casual clothing, there is a certain heirarchy that I’ve developed. It’s quite simple, actually.
Let’s Take a Look…..
Leggings are for dressy occasions, like going out on a date with my husband or seeing my super cute dentist for a root canal.
Yoga pants are for semi-formal excursions, like parent-teacher conferences and going to Target.
Sweatpants are for shopping at Wal-mart, everything else that may come up and MOSTLY to deter my husband from thinking there is any chance we might have sex that evening.
Obviously—unfortunately–there are times when I know that the occasion calls for real pants. On those days, like today, I employ a very specific routine to cope.
FIRST: I stand in the shower and cry for about 30 minutes.
THEN: I take a few shots of tequila to psych myself up.
NEXT: I sit around in a bathrobe for about 2 hours complaining, hiding from the kids and looking up old boyfriends on Facebook.
FINALLY: I make my way to the closet to dig up the one, sad pair of bum-clingers that I have the misfortune to own.
By the time I have located these pants, which have been hidden behind my high school letter jacket and the overalls I wore through most of 10th grade, I am the half naked, angry mess that my husband encountered in our bedroom.
“Maybe I should say I’m sick.” I whined to my husband from the bed, where I was laying face down, and half naked, in mourning. “She’ll have another band concert next year.”
“Because you have to wear pants?” He patted my back cautiously. “Don’t you think that’s a little…extreme?”
“No. No, I don’t” I said dramatically. “Everyone at these things is always so miserable. We all just sit there in our pants, not wanting to talk and feeling unhappy. Have you ever seen people look happy at a three hour high school band concert?”
“Well. No.” He responded. “I think that’s because–”
“It’s the pants. “I told him firmly. “I’m taking a stand.” And so I did stand, pantsless, in my bedroom.
“Yoga pants, sweat pants, leggings FOR ALL!” I shook my fist in the universal sign of victory.
My husband groaned. He looked unhappy, he looked uncomfortable. I didn’t blame him.
I was pretty sure it was because he was wearing pants.