I Love My Sweats (aka: My Fat Pants)

By: Susan Farago

Fat pants - old and new.

Like many SweatyShes, I have spent a lot of money over the years on workout clothes. Fabrics that promise to be high tech, anti-chafing, super warm, fashionable, moisture wicking, slightly compressing, color coordinated, etc. etc. But at the end of a hard workout or just a long day, I always reach for my good old fashioned, soft, reliable, somewhat threadbare, sweat pants. I also refer to them as my "fat pants" because a) I don't have to suck anything in and b) they are nice and baggy. I didn't think much about the fashion statement (or lack thereof) that my choice in apparel was emitting at home until I had this conversation with my husband Leary:

 

Me: I'm going to hop in the shower and then put on my comfy fat pants.

Leary: (without even hesitating) Oh you mean your pink sweats?

Me: How did you know that's what I was talking about.

Leary: (Sensing a trap comparable to, "Does this make my butt look big?, he paused.) Um...I was just guessing.

Me: That was close. You almost got into trouble.

Leary: (huge internal sigh of relief)

 

Truth be told I'm OK with my sweats being known as my fat pants. After all, they aren't exactly slimming. I only wear them around the house, with the exception of one time involving a late night Christmas cookie exchange in a Walgreen's parking lot with my friend Kelly H. And while I'm sure my husband would prefer me to lounge around like a Victoria's Secret model,  it's just not going to happen. The last time I visited a VS store I got into an argument with the sales lady because I asked her to show me a bra that I could wear while playing volleyball AND have my boobs actually remain in the bra. I am all about function and compression when it comes to bras, and my logic was that if a VS bra could do that, then it could withstand the rigors of my day. The argument arose because clearly this woman has never played volleyball, or her version of volleyball is to stand perfectly still, arms down, and not move...ever.

 

I recently realized that my pink fat pants were looking a bit old and tired and might need to be replaced. A couple of weeks ago while we were on vacation in New Mexico, right there in CB Fox's department store, I found a whole rack of Russell Athletic sweat tops and bottoms. SCORE! I told my husband I was going to get some new bottoms and he said, "Please don't." I said, "Oh come on. You can even pick out the color!" and I proceeded to hold up luxuriously thick, fuzzy pants in beautiful shades of heather gray, hunter green, navy, and basic black. He shook his head and walked to the other side of the men's department. "Fine!" I yelled across several racks, "You had your chance!" I opted for the heather gray, thinking the color would match many other things I wear around the house, like Leary's v-neck white Hanes t-shirts for instance.

 

I walked up to the register to pay for my sweats and Leary said, "Don't you want to look in the women's department for sweats?" "Women don't wear sweats", I responded. It's moments like this when I wonder if he questions his choice in marital life partner.

 

Later that day we went for a long trail run in the Jemez Mountains. That evening as I stepped out of the shower, I reached for my new sweats. They felt HEAVENLY! I walked into the kitchen and modeled them for Leary. My #2 fat pants. Leary just smiled and handed me a glass of wine and I said, "Just like home."