Tag Archives: sweatpants

The Gift of the Magi(c) Pants

9 Dec

blog image barefoot snow

The Boy and I had just finished a rousing match of badminton (versus the colloquial version which is more a non-fingered hand-covering and not so much a sport) and after, I suggested that we go to the high school band concert to hear some tunes and visit the Friends of Music bake sale (it’s for a good cause.  Really.  I eat brownies for the children.)  He had no homework and television programming was dominated by football or some other non-badminton type sport.

Now I know that getting The Boy to return to school once his day is done is difficult.  He has spent entire weekends, in February, without a coat because he left it in his locker and refused to go back and get it.  He once came home from school without shoes.  Shoes.  How does a person (other than the folks at Surfrider Foundation.org) get through their day without shodding?  The world is a dirty, broken glass-infested place just waiting to cut someone.  Basically the world is like east L.A. without Los Lobos.

“When you’re done with work, you don’t go back to the office to hang out,” he says.  “Your time there is over.  You know, like if you had an office.  Or a job,” he continued.  “Why don’t you have a job?”

I stopped his blathering and made him empty the car from my warehouse shopping trip where, armed with a list and coupons, I was able to keep costs down by staying focused.  (Although I couldn’t pass up the acai berry concentrate- it heals everything and was on sale.  I have needed it forever yet never knew it existed.)

Likewise the sweatpants.  A total impulse, but necessary, purchase as the moment I saw them I was reminded that The Boy has yet to bring his gym clothes home since, oh, the first day of school.  (I should have bought the bulk Lysol that was also on sale.  The Boy is a dirty, germ-infested being just waiting to cough on someone.)

The Boy has never owned a pair of sweats.  Maybe because “sweat” is something he avoids (along with chores, socializing and any physical contact with his mother- a hug would kill him- but I digress).

Soft and shapeless, the pants transfixed The Boy from the moment he brought them inside.  “Mother,” he asked, “how was I not previously aware of the splendor and the glory of après-school pants?”  (He has never avoided hyperbole, however.)

Now, as nights reach their absolute longest and badminton games occur in short, but fierce, bursts (no net, no rules, no daylight, stop crying), sweat pants are what The Boy wears after school and for entire weekends at a time, all the time.  He rarely argues and even occasionally inquires about my life (which also has no net).  He sends off lovely emails to his teachers, plays his music at a reasonable volume and sometimes flosses.  It’s as if aliens, nice and polite aliens, take over while he nestles deep within the sweatpants.

Oh, he still litters his room with discarded Kind bar wrappers (which I also should have bought in bulk) and has yet to swap out his gym clothes, but for $13.99 I have a teen who is gentle and sweet (and so not mine).

Until the pants give out.

Perhaps the best preventative action is to not launder the pants too often.

And so we learn from the children.

Karma and The Golden Globes

16 Jan

blog image golden globe

Re: Karma.  Don’t you love when this happens to you:

Six years ago, Spouse met a Guy on a plane.  The Guy was like any of us- fumbling through life, drinking cheap wine and waiting for a sign.  Well, he was like any English major I’ve ever known, anyway.

Lacking either a plan or money, The Guy moves to Paris, marries a model, has two kids, moves to Australia then returns to the US whereupon his wife opens an Ayurveda smoothie/pet spa and becomes “the” darling of the Los Angeles Ayurveda-celebrity-pet-smoothie-spa set while I’m still trying to complete a bathroom renovation and get my now six years older car to pass inspection.

And it’s not that we don’t appreciate Ayurveda pet smoothie bars in upstate NY, it’s just that we prefer whole milk all the time.

Fast forward to Sunday night when, while channel-surfing, Spouse spots The Guy at The Golden Globe Awards.  The Golden Globes which, I suspect, have little to do with either geography or transition metals but seem to attract a tanned, relaxed, champagne-sipping crowd.

“There’s The Guy!” he yelled.

“That isn’t fair!” I cried.

And by “that,” I meant “life.”

And by “isn’t,” I meant “is not.”

And it’s true: life is not fair.

Never was, never will be- it’s just that being reminded stinks.

But, like good luck, justice and sweatpants, karma also has an ebb and flow.  (Well, maybe not the sweatpants.  There’s no excuse for sweatpants.)

So, occasionally, when all my pontificating and prognosticating, all the contemplations and reflections on living that I have blathered at my kid (ad nauseam- just ask him and hold for the eye roll), the advice, the pep-talks, the verbiage in/verbiage out, the blow-hardness of my very existence, all of it, comes back at me with the force of a statuette to the face and the kid asks: “What?  He looks like a nice guy.”

I remember that karma works.

And I love when good karma happens to me.

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