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.

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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