I know that Valentine’s Day was five days ago, oh, don’t remind me. I already feel guilty about not writing this sooner, but Sweatpants, I figured that it’s better late than never. I know we’ve only been together for a few weeks now. I know you see my old pair crumpled in a ball in the corner, but I’ll never let that happen to you, Sweatpants. No, we’ll be together forever.
Your tag says “Saturday Pants,” but I wouldn’t mind spending every moment of every day with you, honestly. Slipping into your fleecy lining after a stressful day in dress pants is better than fresh cookies, better than hot coffee, better than a thunderstorm in August. And that’s saying a lot.
I like the way you make me feel, comfortable, luxurious, loved. I think about you when I’m on the phone with my boss. I think of you while I’m eating lunch. I think of you on my commute home. It’s our little secret. And of course you’re there when I arrive, right where I left you, just waiting to get back onto my legs. No one else gets me quite like that.
And for all of those out there who disapprove of our union, wearing Sweatpants at the grocery store is perfectly acceptable. Don’t do a double take when I’m seen with Sweatpants out in public, it’s absolutely normal. Sweatpants are sexy, and anyone who tells you otherwise is just jealous that you get to feel the loving embrace of a pair every day.
Maybe you prefer the drawstring ones, or the ankle-stranglers, in black or blue or grey or any shade of obnoxious neon. I don’t discriminate. You wear your Sweatpants and I’ll wear mine, and we’ll both be comfortable.
Sweatpants, you make me happy like no one else can. I hear the yoga pants, the running leggings calling to me, “Rachel, get up! Exercise! We neeeeeed you.” The shorts and capris yell “Summer is just around the corner, girl! How are your abs?” Pay no attention, Sweatpants. Just ignore them while I grab another brownie.