In praise of jeggings

Like most women, I have faced a number of existential crises surrounding pants.

I feel like things must have been so much simpler back when women stuck strictly to dresses. Dresses are a woman’s secret weapon—if you buy the right one, you look fancy as fuck, but you feel like you’re wearing pajamas. “This old thing?” you say, coquettishly swishing the flared skirt of your beautiful cotton dress. “I am literally as comfortable as if I were wearing my old Plucky Duck Tiny Toons t-shirt from sixth grade that I still sleep in sometimes, but thanks! Also, don’t judge me for owning and wearing a Plucky Duck t-shirt.”

But dresses require shaved legs, and sometimes that just seems like an insurmountable task. And on those days, I must turn to my old nemesis: pants.

More specifically, jeans. Jeans are just such dicks about everything. One day, they’re loose and elephantine, making your butt look saggy and partially detached. The next day, those exact same jeans might inexplicably attempt to sever you in half. Jeans have no idea what they’re doing, and they are terrible at keeping you fully corralled in place. You might adjust a muffin top only to find several minutes later that three inches of your crack are exposed.

I much prefer leggings, with their forgiving elastic waistbands and butt-lifting technology, but I’m fairly positive that Obama made an amendment to the constitution banning women over the age of 35 from wearing leggings as pants, so I mostly limit my legging time to around the house or to the grocery store, where I already feel judged about the contents of my cart, so why not just go all-in?

I can’t wear leggings to work, but my jeans have gone feral and are attempting to constrict me to death so they can slowly digest me. I know there’s no shame in buying a bigger pants size (although this doesn’t really comfort me when I’m simultaneously crying and jamming cookies into my mouth three at a time), so I head to Old Navy, determined to find a pair of jeans that doesn’t want to murder me. And suddenly, I have found them:

JEGGINGS.

The respectability of jeans, with the comfort of leggings. I put them on in the dressing room and it’s like wearing your favorite pair of lounge pants, except when you look down, you’re wearing jeans and not pink polyester fabric covered in monkey faces. I feel like I could do the splits in these pants and not be restricted at all, which is amazing, because I can’t come anywhere close to doing the splits, but THAT’S HOW INSPIRING THESE JEGGINGS ARE.

They only had one pair in my size, so of course I bought it, and I’m wearing my jeggings right now. I didn’t even pretend to anyone at work today that they were real jeans—I spent a good chunk of the morning approaching women I barely even knew and forcing them to watch me pull the elastic waist of the jeggings away from my body, yelling THEY’RE JEGGINGS!

I think people were impressed.

Between the jeggings, leggings and dresses, I now essentially have the wardrobe of a five-year-old, but I am not ashamed. You might be laughing at my buttonless, zipperless existence, but with my elastic waistband, I’ll have more breathing room to laugh even harder as your jeans attempt to kill you.

Plus, I’ll be able to eat more cookies. So I think that’s a win.

Unpopular Opinion #1

I am not happy about this non-winter we’re having.

While the rest of you are basking in the 50 degree weather in January and keeping your fingers crossed that winter really isn’t coming this year, I am inside, moping that I have yet to experience a time this year that I haven’t been able to feel my toes. My kids are outside drawing chalk rainbows on the driveway right now, and I haven’t even gotten to take one obligatory rosy-cheeked-from-cold photo montage of them. The older one isn’t even wearing shoes (which, to be honest, is probably ill-advised, since it’s still only like 45 degrees outside right now, but my kids are weirdly impervious to cold, lending credence to my alien replicant theory).

I might be the only one, but I am honestly a huge fan of winter. The cold air feels cleaner, the pressure to eat salad is at a minimum, and people are much less likely in general to go outside, which means I get to live my dream of surviving an apocalypse and never having to wait in line at Potbelly for lunch. It gets dark sooner, and I am actually much more productive when it’s dark– when it stays lighter longer, I feel like I need to spend all the time I can outside, which I’m sure is great for my physical health, but wreaks havoc on my many hobbies, all of which involve a couch and blanket to adequately complete. I also hate being sweaty, so winter is a welcome change from armpit swamp.

But I think the main thing I enjoy most about winter is the fact that I can wear black leggings essentially everywhere, and because I’m wearing a giant parka, no one can judge me. After all, under this coat, I might be wearing a chic sweater dress or artfully draped tunic. I mean, I’m not– I’m probably wearing a Turtle Beach t-shirt I’ve had since the fifth grade– but no one can know that for sure.  So until it gets cold again, I am forced to actually dress like a grown human being (which really just means pants with buttons, but seriously, I would get pregnant again right now if it meant I could just wear maternity pants without shame for the rest of my life).

So bring on the snow and the sleet and the perpetually frozen snot nose! I, for one, am ready to be forced to spend the day under a blanket marathoning Making a Murderer while a blizzard rages outside. It’s a terrible sacrifice, but I am prepared to make it.

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Although then I went outside and saw what they had been drawing and now I feel guilty, but not guilty enough to not wish for unlimited leggings time.