I was complaining about how as I've lost weight, I've had to buy new clothes. People, I find, are endlessly fascinated by such bitching, so I do it as often as possible. Pointing to my already-ill-fitting new dress shirt, Annette said I needed to buy cheaper clothes. Katrina nearly did a spit-take.
"No. He doesn't." Katrina then started in on The Sweats.
I've owned this pair of sweats for years. They've survived many girlfriends. I've pulled them out of the trash twice. To the horror of any woman in my presence, they are my everyday attire of choice.
Men, meanwhile, are uniformly supportive.
"I kinda remember that they used to be black," Katrina droned. "But it's been years. They're a purply/gray/beige diseased color now."
They are also far too big for me, their drawstring having decomposed a sometime during Clinton's term in office. His first term. It's time for them to meet their fate, but first, a tribute. Here's their general state.
And here're the legs. Note the added holes for my feet, right above the elastic-banded ones. The possible variations are endless. The sweats are a marvelously flexible garment.
Putting my mother down wasn't this hard. I just can't do it.