It Pains Me

Congratulations, you are friends with the most picky person on the planet (me). At least when it comes to sweat pants. And I wear them a lot. I mean a lot.

I collect them like stamps. But only wear my favorite pair.

The ultimate pair, the kind that comes around once in a lifetime, was found at a Ross in Las Vegas in 2001. I wore those puppies day and night and taught nearly every ballet class in them. They were terry cloth with spandex, navy blue with a pale blue elastic band. A former ballet student now works at Pasta Factory. I happened to be mourning to her about the fate of my favorite sweats and she said, "Oh, were they navy with a pale blue band?" YES, THOSE ONES!

They died when I was just eight weeks pregnant. Yes, that was 2006, I wore them for five years. I was packing for a Boulder Mountain trip with Brandon and was cleaning fly line in my bathroom sink. The line was on my Dad's nice reel, the one I never let myself use. But I was going to bust it out this time. It still had a beaded head prince nymph tied on, his last fly and I always took it out and couldn't believe that he had actually been on earth and fishing with it.

That beautiful nymph got caught in my sweat pants! I tried literally for an hour to get it out safely. But alas, through wet eyes and emotion that can only come out of a grieving and pregnant woman, I decided to sacrifice the pants to save my Dad's last fly and cut it free with scissors. I keep it safe in my special things. But dammit, I miss those sweats.

I got completely packed for that trip but after that breakdown and one last pregnant vomiting episode in the sink, I drove to the shop and told Brandon I wasn't going with him.

Then there was a drought. (Seven years of plenty, seven years of famine.) I hunted and hunted for a new pair that would be as comfortable. I suffered my whole pregnancy without a good pair of sweats. Finally, last year, I found another pair that is permanently stuck to my body. THEY ARE HIDEOUS, let me tell you. They are knee-length, hot pink and just sick to the core. And by sick, I don't mean PHAT sick or The S***. I mean sick. Hideously, hot-pinkishly sick. I apologize constantly to my family that they have to see me in them daily. But comfort means that much to me.

They have to be just right, you see. Short rise in the crotch, very loose elastic and stretchy terry cloth. Talk about impossible. Please, someone out there, help me be comfy. If you build it, they will come. The housewives of America will thank you. Sometimes I think I'm crazy. Why am I so sensitive to comfort? Everything has to be just so. It pains me to be even slightly uncomfortable. I nearly panic.