Operation: Sweatpants

2 1/2 weeks.  That's 18 days.  Or it's 432 hours.  More seconds than I can figure out with a calculator.  It's a hellava lot of time.  Something close to forever.  That's how long I've been free.

People handle major life changes in numerous ways.  Some curl up in a ball and hide from the world.  Some become so depressed they eat the left side of the McDonalds menu on even days of the month and the right side on odd days.  Many go on drinking binges until their friends cart them off to AA.  Some go about life appearing unmarred until they have a nervous breakdown in the cheese section of the grocery store because they are suddenly out of Jarlsberg. (To the staff and onlookers at at Trader Joes, I'm so sorry...again).

I wear sweatpants.

To be fair, these aren't just any ordinary sweatpants nor are they those ridiculous things from Victoria's Secret with "Love" or "Pink" splashed across my derriere in rhinestones.  Don't pretend those pants are comfortable.  Sitting on a rhinestone barb is not a thing I want my ass to experience.  Those little teeth catch on everything and I don't need to dislodge myself from the afghan every time I need to refill my glass of Merlot.  These sweatpants are years old and perfectly broken in.  Some are stained with red wine, chocolate or some other mystery food that I found myself craving on a dark and stormy night.  My favorite pair has a hole in the crotch and the draw string is missing so I need a safety pin to hold them up.  They were once bright red but have faded beautifully to a soft, rosy pink.  They fall perfectly to my ankles leaving the tiniest amount of skin showing in between the hem and my slippers.  They look smashing when paired with my sisters college roommates sweatshirt. (Honey, you are never getting it back). They have the sex appeal of garlic breath and make my ass look misshapen. Sometimes you need to be comfortable to let your mind do some serious thinking.  The rattier the pair of sweatpants is, the better.  Throw your hair in a ponytail, wear your glasses instead of contacts and don't wear make up.  Allow yourself to cry when you want to, laugh when you feel insane and eat whatever the hell you want.  Healing is hard.

Why sweatpants, you ask?  Well, I might relate it to the episode of Friends where Chandler is in his sweatpants stage.  Here it is if you haven't seen it.

I've been back from my Florida vacation for exactly one week.  Or as I like to call it: Eternity While Babysitting Your Friends' Pet Rabbits and Living in a House You Use to Call Home But Now It Is More Like A Place You Live With a Guy Who You Use To Call Your Husband But Now He's Really Like a Roommate You Avoid Because The Sight of Him Makes You Angrier Than Lindsay Lohan At Last Call.  Yes. That is my current life situation.  At this very moment, sweatpants and wine are a staple and my God given right.

To quote the biggest, whiniest bitch in history: "After all, tomorrow is another day".  It may or may not include sweatpants.


Photo credit:  Who knows.  Found it on the internet when I Googled "depressed woman in sweatpants"
Video credit:  Youtube.com