I wear a lot of sweatpants.
Those of you who knew me prior to 2012 won’t believe this. If you knew me before 2012 you knew that I once wore a seafoam halter dress made of chiffon and trimmed in feathers to happy hour, consistently wore six inch heels to the grocery store and owned a closet full of “special occasion outfits”; a gingham dress specifically for picnicking, a studded corset that was designated for biker bars, a ruffled top for Cinco de Mayo, dress pants that were pinstriped in pepto-pink and lavender for the day I became an editor at Cosmopolitan, etc. The list goes on.
I also wore a lot of leggings that I tried to pass off as real pants. I know now that they weren’t real pants and everyone who saw me bend over in the 5 or so years before Rinn was born probably saw things you can't unsee. Consider this my public apology. Now can we move on.
In 2012 I had Rinn. This is not meant to sound cliche and I can’t and won’t advocate wearing sweatpants just because you had a baby. But I will advocate for wearing outfits more comfortable and practical when being puked on is inevitable, and you’ll be repeatedly taking your boobs out of your shirt. Also you’ll eventually have to chase a small person who is freakishly fast for having legs the length of your forearm. You don’t want your skinny jeans to be the reason your child got away from you and knocked over a huge lipgloss tower at a Victoria’s Secret. Wait, I think that was my mom after two mojitos. Nevermind.
So I began my journey into what I call “sweatpant chic”.
“Sweatpant chic” is literally any comfortable outfit that includes a stretchy waistband but was put on deliberately and wouldn’t be appropriate for a hot yoga class or makes it appear that you are either going to or just left the gym.
Activewear doesn’t count. Neither do your Christmas-themed pajama pants. Not saying I don’t leave my house in that stuff sometimes. Anyone who has seen me drop Rinn off at school at some point in the past ten months could easily testify that I’ve left the house wearing various shades of flannel. It just doesn’t fall into the “sweatpant chic” category.
Joggers, jumpsuits, track pants, actual sweatpants, etc., those work.
However, they don’t work when the anticipated heat index means you’ll spend the afternoon hoping the underboob sweat dripping into your bellybutton doesn’t leave a wet mark on your shirt. Nothing really works when it’s that hot. Putting deodorant (a natural variety of course) under your tits kind of helps. So does forgoing clothes all together but I think it’s safe to say that if I’m self-conscious about a sweat stain on my stomach, you can bet your ass I won’t be running out for eggs in the nude.
But I now live in a climate that makes wearing sweatpants for a majority of the year almost impossible, unless of course I want groin sweat marks on my pants in addition to the boob sweat marks on my shirt.
At one point in my life I legitimately cried in a meeting with a production manager because they decided to implement a dress code that required us to wear jeans. You can reread that if you want to but it’s not a typo. Nor am I joking. I cried because someone told me I had to wear real pants. Because I really need you to understand my affinity for stylish casual wear, let me also inform you that throughout the school year Rinn and I would, more often than not, get into arguments about what he should wear. In almost every instance I asked him to wear jeans (cowboy and necktie day aside) he would burst into tears muttering that he wants to wear sweatpants so he could “play better.” The moral of this story, I might be a seven-year-old boy.
So clearly not being able to wear sweatpants because the humidity in Myrtle Beach rivals that of Kuala Lumpur has caused me various degrees of distress.
Hello, two-piece sets.
Whatever you want to call them.
They’re my new favorite.
Meeting all of the necessary criteria:
Comfortable - check.
Takes the guesswork out of getting dressed - check.
Minimal sweating - check.
Looks like I’ll be spending the summer coining a new phrase: “set chic.”
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(or at the very least find comical.)