Just Because You Could, Does Not Mean You Should

Humor is the best medicine for what ails you.

I’ve been shopping for sweatpants for over two weeks and it’s making me cranky. I need a pair of sweatpants and I need them in time for Thanksgiving because… well…because I plan to eat a lot.

I need a pair of cotton fleece, heather-gray classic Leave-It–to-Beaver looking sweat pants. You know the kind Wally threw on after hitting the game-winning, three-pointe shot at the buzzer. The kind of sweatpants he wore with high top Chuck Taylors and a matching Property-of-Mayfield-High-Athletic-Dept sweatshirt.

The problem is you can’t find good old-fashioned sweatpants anymore. Trust me. I’ve looked everywhere. It’s not as if there are no sweatpants to be found. There are plenty of trendy sweatpants available, but trendy is not for me. I’m in the market for something simple and classic and baggy enough to bamboozle me into believing I have enough room for both the pumpkin cheescake and the bourbon pecan pie a la mode…even if I don’t.

Yoga pants seem to be very popular among women these days. They come in all colors, shapes and sizes: Capri-length, boot cut, tapered, misses, petites, plus size and they stretch. The thing about yoga pants is they all sit low on your hips. I suppose that’s sexy if you’re sporting a pierced navel or tasteful (is there such a thing?) lumbo-sacral tattoo, but not so much if you consume enough turkey and stuffing to make fastening the top button on your sensible britches an agonizing struggle.

My gut spills over the waistband on a pair of yoga pants on a good day. Forget about Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving I need something with a drawstring. Something I can hoist up comfortably over my entire midriff so when Grandma asks if I have room for dessert, I can answer with resounding YES…even if I don’t.

I actually found a pair of drawstring sweatpants the other day. It was just another ordinary day. I’d lost hope of ever finding a pair of sweatpants to my liking when BAM! there they were. Bunches of drawstring sweatpants piled high on a table, just waiting to be found. I grabbed a pair and made a b-line for the fitting room.

I tried them on and made a full assessment. They weren’t exactly what I had in mind: cotton jersey instead of fleece, black instead of heather gray, flared hem instead of elasticized. They weren’t perfect, but they had a drawstring AND they sat at my natural waist, not six inches below it. Hmmm…close enough…SOLD…to the lady in the frumpy jeans.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I will now pause for a moment in order to express my gratitude. I’ll bet you’re expecting me to give thanks for regular old drawstring sweatpants. WRONG. Thank heavens for three-way mirrors. Amen

I figured those sweatpants were as close as I was going to get to the real thing. They fit. They were comfortable, and I was this close (imagine me, pinching my thumb and index finger together for dramatic emphasis) to a purchase when something came over me. I’m not sure what possessed me to do it, but I’m glad I did. I pulled back the curtain of my private cubicle and stepped in front of the communal three-way mirror. Rotating slightly to the left I craned over my shoulder to get a glimpse at myself from behind and that’s when (gasp) I saw it. BOOTYLISCIOUS.

The word Bootyliscious (and I’m not entirely sure what it means, or why someone would put it there) was scrawled in large white letters across my derriere. What’s more, as if the stark contrast of bold white letters on black sweatpants was not enough, each letter B-O-O-T-Y-L-I-S-C-I-O-U-S was embellished with rhinestones. Go ahead and reread it. That’s right. RHINESTONES. Even if you have the good fortune to possess the anatomical padding associated with bootylisciousness, why would anyone want to sit on rhinestones? Just thinking about it makes me cringe.

I can’t help wondering. Rhinestones? Tete-a-tete on your tail? Who came up with the idea to put words on people’s backsides and why? WHY? I mean there simply is no good reason to draw additional attention to a colossal rump. If the seat of your pants is expansive enough to contain an eight-letter word, there is a good chance YOU ARE NOT I repeat YOU ARE NOT BOOTYLISCIOUS.

I stripped out of those sweatpants faster than you could say Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, which happens to be the longest word in the English language and, might I add,  could easily fit across my own prodigious behind, but you don’t see it plastered there do you? DO YOU? Of course you don’t because I know better.

I know better and it took a pair of (for lack of a better name) words-across-your-rump sweatpants for me to realize it. I could wear “Bootyliscious” or”Juicy” or “PINK” or “I – heart- My Sschnauzer” sweatpants, but I won’t because I know better. I could eat my way into a tryptophan coma on Thanksgiving Day, but I won’t because I know better. There are all manner of things I could do, but I don’t. Because I know better.

There is a moral to this story. Just because you could, does not mean you should. I know better and for that, I am thankful.

Read Just Another Ordinary Day in the Smyrna-Vinings Patch.