I hate jeans. I mean I really really hate them. Especially right now as I type this and my gut is spilling over the waistband and I have no other choice but to just sit here and endure the humiliation.
My last post was written in distraction as I was on a plane to California because of a family emergency. It was either be worried and weep in seat 36D or finish what I had started the day before…before the call. The post was about white shoes. I had spent the day with my Mother-In-Law coaxing her into a pair and happily writing about that experience and how white shoes are supremely fashion forward, and with one call, the whole fashion forward white shoe angle was replaced with the white shoes I’d be subjected to for the next 6 days as nurses and doctors came in and out of the ICU.
Fast forward to today, seven days later, as I am now heading home, writing this on a plane. My dad out of the ICU, dodging a fatal bullet, and is on the mend from emergency quadruple bypass surgery. In seven days, I’ve gained at least 5 pounds out of sheer stress and worry, having eaten every carb, sugar and starch known to man to cope.
Back to the call. In my packing panic to catch a plane, my brain wasn’t thinking “comfort”. I was thinking, get there, be optimistic, wear something that says, “I’m not worried.” In my frenzy I guess I thought jeans communicated that. What an idiot.
What I really needed in my carry-on were sweats and leggings and fabrics that expanded and billowed and still felt good after wearing for 17 hours, three cappuccinos, a Snickers bar and endless doctor consults. I hate jeans. What I love are my sweats.
I do not like sexy sweats or expensive sweats or fashionable sweats. I like oversized, old-school, gut busters.
I know. But god do I love them. They’re comfortable, forgiving, a constant fleecy hug. They don’t judge like jeans do: Constantly squeezing and pinching your sins.
I say screw jeans and discomfort and humiliation. In the future, I’ve decided to have a better selection of “Comfortably Optimistic” outfits for other calls…like my dad saying, “lets go to a Giants game” when I’m back home visiting…just to visit.
(Thank You, Dr. Morales)