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My wife Mykala is a woman who knows how to wear some sweatpants. As the owner of a veritable library of them (nearly the antithesis to my own wardrobe), Mykala reintroduced me to sweatpants through persuasion and sheer exposure.

In elementary school, I had these red sweatpants which I wore to school once. I’m sure no one said anything about my pants, but possessing the misplaced assumption that everyone was looking at me, ready to laugh, I was certain derisive snickers and outright insults were bound to rain down upon me. Mykala and I have a short-hand for this type of self-consciousnessness: I imagine a world where everyone has giant eyes — mercilessly following my every move. This (of course) is patently false now, as it was then. Even at my young age, I was unusually intent on details, and I think there was a small darn on one of the legs… as far as I can tell, all this freaked me out sufficiently to keep me out of sweatpants for about a decade afterwards. What a shame.

Continued…

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