I'm married to a shiny guy. He carries a man purse and secures the crisp in his shirts with personalized brass collar stays. This is why I was very amused this evening when he announced he had purchased sweatpants. Sweatpants?
We're just not casual people, see. Yoga pants are as low as I go and I drink pink lemonade from a wine glass. Niko insists on eating his snacks at the dining room table. Hello! We have a chandelier on our deck. The whole fashion wave of calculated nonchalance with the sneakers and whatnot? Completely lost on us. We're perpetually, comically, dorkishly fancy.
Maybe we are dorks. But we're sure as hell not wearing sweatpants. Aren't sweatpants for people who don't take showers? For depressed shut-ins who smell like pee or hungover college girls on their period who show up to class with crust in their eyes? Or for really athletic types who drip sweat and pump iron. Bleh. I wore heels every day of my life until I gave birth, so you can see I'm not really into the whole "sweatpants" culture, but I digress. This is about my husband. The one who manscapes with a $500 electric tool, also engraved with his name. He's the Laverne, I'm the Shirley.
When I mentioned this, he said the sweatpants are "for the house". Well so are the arty paintings and the fussy furniture but they're not made of gray "sweatpant material"? What is that stuff anyway? It's like foam.
After strutting around the living room a few minutes he muttered something about the tailor. Yes, my husband is having a pair of $9.99 sweatpants professionally altered. Ah, there's the man I know.
These are a DON'T. Even alone in your own home, in your own bed with the lights off on a Tuesday night in January when you have the flu. Don't.
Filed under: You fancy