Tag Archives: letter

A Letter From My Yoga Pants

It has been more than a year since I wrote a letter to my new yoga pants welcoming them to the family. In that time we’ve had our share of ups and downs—often from the couch—and upward/downward facing dog positions, which is to be expected.

What I didn’t expect was a letter in reply, and I feel it’s only fair that I share their rebuttal today.

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Dear Abby,

Here’s the deal.

The honeymoon is over.

It’s been a year since you scrounged up the $20 or so at Target to bring me into your life, and while I admit that did have slightly higher hopes for where I would end up — maybe some fashion-forward type with a perky butt that would fill me out better and wear me only once every few weeks while “slumming” and sipping wine on a veranda —I never held that fact against you.

From the beginning you made it clear that I would be put into a small rotation of “good” pants worn out in public before being relegated to “home” pants put on the second you came in the door until you hit the hay at the crazy hour of 10 p.m.

But it’s been a year, and well, I have a couple of issues.

First of all, can we talk about this gym situation a minute? Because I’m still considered your “good” pair, I always have to go out and quite frankly, being in public is exhausting.

With the exception of seeing Hot Gym Guy on the treadmill in front of us—talk about dangling the carrot in front of the horse, am I right?—I can only take so many elliptical sessions and small talk with the woman next to you who apparently marinates in perfume before I’m tempted to use my drawstring for violence.

Second, let’s talk about food.

Sometimes I feel like you should keep me in the fridge because of all the little pieces of hummus or avocado that find their way onto me. I know you try and do that whole, “Wet a towel and wipe it off” thing, but who are we kidding? I hate to break it to you, but no one, that’s who.

Finally, I’m tired and it’s starting to show.

There’s wear and tear on my cuffs, and the aforementioned weaponized drawstring has even broken off in one spot. Sometimes I even feel like even the Walmart cashier is judging how we look.

So let’s just get it all out there, my friend—it’s time to buy a new pair.

Yes, I want you to move on and wear other pants in public so I can enjoy being your “home” pair, which as you said is pretty much like retirement in the Florida Keys for me. I want to swap the gym for power yoga—and by “power yoga” I mean corpse pose on the couch for hours—and only for long walks to the fridge.

Will I miss Hot Gym Guy? Sprinting to put out the recycle as the truck comes down the street?  At times, I’m sure that I will. But all in all, I’m content providing you nothing but comfort from “real” pants that just don’t get you.

I get you.

Now with my blessing, go and get some new pants.

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A Letter to My New Yoga Pants

I understand you had higher hopes for where you’d end up, maybe some fashion-forward type with a perky butt that would fill you out better than I can and wear you only once every few weeks while “slumming” and sipping wine on a veranda.

However, the simple fact is that I chose you to come into my life and join a rotation of about three other pair of these pants. You play the hand you’re dealt.

I need to make clear up front that even though I will wear you when occasionally doing yoga, I’m aware you’re not technically yoga pants—you’re workout pants. I don’t pretend that you’re a $100 purchase from Lululemon that I’ll never buy when you’re actually a $12 purchase from Target, but seeing as I don’t sip wine and eat sushi on a veranda, please allow me to sound fancy when referencing you.

I also need to make it clear that for me, you aren’t just weekend wear or something to lounge in. You will become a highly valued member of my family. Because you’re new, you will be considered my “good yoga pants” and will be worn to the gym, the store, etc.—in other words, you will be a public figure of sorts. 

That means I’m going to need to rely on you day in and day out until I feel others get suspicious and I throw you in the wash.

This cycle will continue until you literally wear out your welcome, like the others who have journeyed before you. When that time comes, be secure in the knowledge I will keep you around as my “home” yoga pants, which is a pretty much like retirement in the Florida Keys for you.

Public appearances will be replaced with home workouts and actual yoga sessions, but your primary function is comfort. Every day when I get home from work, you are expected to be standing guard at the ready, next to the sports bra and T-shirt that complete my fashionista trifecta.

There will be challenges—cat hair, spilled food, quick sprints outside to try and move the recycle bin out to the curb on the days I remember—but when all is said and done, you will know that it’s you and you alone who provide me with a sense of relief and relaxation from “real” pants that just don’t get me.

So welcome to the rotation, my friend.

I look forward to breaking you in.

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Letters I Probably Won’t Send

 

To the Man at the Dollar Store who kept asking his wife how much something costs:

It’s $1. Everything is $1. Beware, as your wife looks annoyed and might just throw a dull off-brand pair of kitchen shears into the cart. Sleep with one eye open.

And to your wife? Take a deep breath and count to 10. Thousand.


To commercials targeted at women:

While I understand the marketing idea behind making everyday situations appear a million times more exciting than they actually are, most of us are not fooled into thinking that using a whitening toothpaste will in fact make our teeth so white that our smile could land a husband or a small aircraft or that wiping up spills with extra-absorbent paper towel makes us want to sing.

I also don’t invite friends over to watch me dance with a miracle mop and then eat the yogurt you pimp out that the reaction of women in commercials would have me believe contains orgasmic properties and not just probiotics.

As for expressing my individuality, I don’t need to do it through pink pens or  feminine hygiene products packaged in bright colors with cool patterns, but thank you for the suggestion.


To the sock that falls out of the laundry basket as I’m walking up the stairs:

You might not think this is a big deal and that you deserve some “alone” time away from the crowd, but you have to understand the implications of your escape.

As I bend down to pick you up—basket full of laundry in my arms—it’s inevitable that at least two other items from the basket will also jump ship. I also have to pick up a towel and/or a dishcloth that has fallen while I’m down there to pick you up and the cycle just goes on and on.

You can see how distressing this is, and quite honestly, your behavior gives me reason to believe that you are why the divorce rate of my socks is increasing. Let’s work on this, little buddy.


To the cashier who said, “Enjoy your evening!”  as I left the store carrying my box of Q-tips and a bottle of oven cleaner:

I think it goes without saying that I’ll do just that.

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