This morning while in the closet, I gazed longingly at Frank’s comfortably roomy sweatsuits, and then sighed and resigned myself to wear the teacher-apropos slacks and blouse. Maybe my slacks were maternity pants and perhaps “blouse” is far too dressy a word to apply to the three-sizes too big, button-up, striped sack of fabric, but I was comfortable. Screw style; the only labels I care about are the ones that say “XL” and “MADE WITH SPANDEX.”
You know you have problems when you pause to seriously consider the possible merits of Pajama Jeans.
If I had my way, I’d wear yoga pants* and oversized, stupid t-shirts every damned day.
My homie Shannon, fellow lover of snarky shirts and creator of the Black Power shirt that she sent to me, bought this hoodie and a t-shirt for herself as Christmas gift to herself.
We’re debating whether or not we should put our snark to good use and open up a Zazzle shop.
It might provide the distraction I need to keep me from clicking “checkout” on my Pajama Jeans shopping cart.
*Yoga almost killed me. Doing hard physical work in yoga pants is a waste of good comfort, in my book.