Sweatpants

          In case you are one of the few people I haven't complained to in the past forty-eight hours, you should know that I had all four wisdom teeth removed early Wednesday morning. I spent the week leading up to the surgery incessantly worrying about everything and anything that could go wrong. One moment I'd be scared that the anesthetist would give me too much of the good stuff and knock me out permanently, the next I'd make up this scenario that he wouldn't give me enough, and therefor leaving me the ability to feel every little slice and dice but not the needed muscle function to tell someone about this serious mistake (much like Hayden Christianson in the poorly-received film Awake). Despite my rampant imagination, the operation went as smoothly as original Jif.  I floated home afterwards, high as a kite floating on cotton gauze clouds. Internally, I scolded myself for being so scared, saying, "Silly, Jojo. That wasn't painful at all! And now, you get to eat all of the rainbow sherbet!"
          Getting to eat all of the technicolor desserts comes with a cost, more commonly known as hating your own existence.  That excruciating pain people had warned me about came on immediately after I pulled the packings from my mouth. It was as if my entire face exploded within the confines of my skin. My cheeks resembled those of the blob fish, and I somehow had acquired Kanye West's lips. I was convinced for the longest time that I had no tongue, that the surgeon decided my life would be somehow better without it. I was crying, snotty, inconsolable. In short, I was exactly what I imagined I would be like post-op. Luckily, I have the best mom in the entire world. She eased my worried heart, made me delicious, mushy squash, broke up my medication into applesauce when I couldn't open my mouth wide enough to swallow it, and helped me into the comfiest clothing any bed rest patient could desire.
          For the first few days, I was pleased as punch with my sweatpants-graphic tee-grandpa sweater uniform. It was effortless and easy, fairly warm, and transitioned well into functioning as pajamas whenever my vicodin decided to knock me out. This morning however, something felt different. As I slipped on a pair of pink cropped sweatpants and a college sweatshirt, a shudder went through my bones. I sat down in the same chair I had been sitting in for the past two days, hot tea in hand... and I felt gross. I reasoned that this is what moss must feel like: stagnant, forgotten, and laying in filth. The arsenal of fashion magazines I had stockpiled next to me wasn't helping. Here I was, ice packs strapped to both sides of my face, thermal blanket on high, numerous pill bottles within shaky hand's reach, looking at picture after picture of poised perfection. Women were glowing with flawless complexions, wearing size zero designer gowns, casually posed at a cocktail party as if this was the kind of thing they did in these kinds of outfits all of the time (which was probably true).  I was beginning to feel extremely worthless until I took notice of their teeth, or rather the fact that they still had all of them.  They hadn't just gone through the pain, confusion, and shock that I had endured. The biggest pain these ladies felt  probably came from their Spanx or stilettos.  It was at this moment that I decided sweatpants had a greater purpose than I had recently thought. Sweatpants were made for all of those going through hardship and strife, the bodies and hearts experiencing some type of turmoil.
          It sounds a little melodramatic, I know, but let's look at the basic function of sweatpants. Sweatpants were originally created for the athlete. They're made out of a heavy jersey material and have simple construction, normally incorporating a drawstring and elastic banding. An athlete wears sweatpants to protect his or her muscles. Before practice, sweatpants perform the way a sleeping bag does for a body with hypothermia: it contains the legs and slowly warms the muscles, preparing them for the coming physical activity. After practice, sweatpants are worn to keep the muscles warm, allowing them to slowly relax down to resting temperature, similar to a cool down stretch. Some readers may be unable to connect sports to turmoil but let me try and illustrate it for you: you're covered in sweat, your heart is pounding, your lungs are gasping for a few restful breaths, your thighs/arms/abs/ass feel like they are on fire, and as you glance at your watch, you realize you still have forty-four minutes left in your workout. See the tortures now?
          Another scenario where sweatpants get a fashion pass is if you've experienced a recent breakup. They say the best way to get over someone is to keep busy: go out for drinks with your friends, get a new haircut, join a club, visit loved ones, do some yoga, etc. etc. Having been through a few pretty rough breakups, I've found the best way to get over someone is in a pair of sweatpants, drinking pink lemonade vodka straight from the bottle, watching Serendipity over and over and over again, and passing out in the shower. Okay, maybe this isn't the best way to get over someone but it is the best way to forget about... well, everything for a bit. In this instance, sweatpants aren't preparing the body for work but are providing a pillow for the broken spirit, and bonus! The drawstring can be adjusted to every cupcake consumed, constantly assuring you that, no, you don't look fat. In fact, you've never looked better, sunshine. 
          A lot of people assume I have some sort of vendetta against sweatpants. I rarely wear them, even when I am sick, sticking to loose skirts or oversized sweaters and leggings instead. This is an unfounded assumption, as can be seen in my argument for sweatpants above. The people I do have beef with are those who abuse the poor jersey leg wear, the ones who choose jogging gear over any other piece of clothing. If you've ever stepped onto a college campus, you know the perpetrators I'm talking about. Those girls who wear neon green, cropped sweatpants with a sassy saying splayed across the butt, a matching velour track jacket, and Uggs. Always Uggs. The male offenders are almost as bad, wearing their sweatpants low-slung, some worn-out sports tee on top, and either flip-flops or moccasins. And it's not as if they wear this type of ensemble once. Once I'd be able to allow, twice even, if it was finals week. But no, these people wear these get-ups all the freaking time. I don't know if they understand the fundamental rule of dress: wearing oversized clothes doesn't make you look skinny; it makes you look sloppy. Being a recent college graduate myself, I understand that it's an incredibly stressful four years and some days comfort outweighs the need to be chic. For those days, there are tons of alternative things to wear. Yoga pants are one of God's many gifts to women. They're hecka stretchy, enduring any strange late-night-studying-in-the-library-lounge pose you could force them into. Also, they conform to your shape, showing the world you haven't lost your feminine curves without being nearly as constricting as jeggings. For your upper half, french terry is a beautiful alternative. It's lighter than normal sweatsuit material, and lays flatter on the body much like a tee shirt. Plus, many retail stores have been producing super hip, printed pullovers made with french terry. Tres chic, non? And for the Black Card Members out there, the option of cashmere is always available. I mean, if it was between a PINK sweatshirt or a J. Crew cashmere sweater, we all no there would be no competition. Although most are machine washable, when you are considering slipping into some sweats, always handle your decision with the utmost care.