So here’s the thing: I’m OVER people blogging about yoga pants. I am! I might buy 10 pairs of skinny jeans and put them on two days before I start my period because I’m so sick and tired of hearing about these stretchy wonders.
I’m also fed up because your yoga pants appear to be perfect. You wear them proudly . . . everywhere. Well mine are not yours, and someone would be dropping spare change in my hand if I ever wore them in public.
Here’s how my yoga pants are different from yours. . .
My yoga pants are not appropriate for the great outdoors. Or anywhere there is the possibility of human contact.
While yours are seemingly perfect, mine look like they’ve been gnawed to shreds by a platoon of rats on bath salts. There are holes in the knees, around the ankles, and on the thighs. I even have a pair that allows me to air-dry my southern landscape.
My yoga pants look like they were hung over hot grease and then dried near one of those industrial-strength car wash fans filled with ketchup. Honey, there are stains. Stains that can be explained and those that I’ll just blame on the kids.
My yoga pants are 4 inches too long. I’ve always had a problem buying pants that fit. I’m tall! But when I bought these, I must have thought I was a former WNBA player.
I swear on the Lycra patent they have a 42-inch inseam because I can roll them back onto my leg and still have them hang to my ankles. I constantly trip over them, and have even suffered a mild concussing. Not to be confused with concussion because I totally wore out all fourteen C- and F-words.
My yoga pants are so faded there are now 51 shades of grey.
Christian would tie me up and then leave the house (never to return). Seriously. I don’t even think I can place them on the color wheel. Are they gold and white? Blue and black? (Who freaking cares?!)
My yoga pants do not contain a smidgen of spandex or any fiber that makes an inflated ass look sexy. I believe they are made entirely of cotton. Cotton picked from clearance row trees. The same kind used to construct granny panties and Old Navy T-shirts.
My yoga pants melt a little every time they’re washed. They do! It’s got nothing to do with all the cake I ate last week. Trust me.
My yoga pants are not really meant for yoga. I bought them in the Tall and Awkward section and if I ever attempted to do an 8-angle or Visvamitra’s pose, I guarantee my tonsils would be coming out the gaping hole. You wouldn’t know whether to call an ambulance or Hustler magazine.
My yoga pants beg to be put out of their mercy every single day; to which I not so thoughtfully decline. I yank those bitches up and go about my day.
They may not be perfect, but they’re mine. A little bit of stretchy heaven that forgives the imperfections and allows me to bend over without being suffocated to death.
Be honest. What do yours look like?