Fancy Sweatpants

At work we had a fancy-sweatpants rollout. The sweats feel amazing, but I was still questioning the new line. I said to my coworker, “Whose buying $80 sweatpants?”

She confidently said, “Nobody leaves their house. This is what people want!” 

She was right, and we sold three pairs that day.

The only $80 sweat pants I’ve owned had “Juicy” bedazzled over the butt. These sweats didn’t have any message; “Fresh” across the front would be a price-worthy touch.

Yesterday, I wore a fashionable face mask. A statement mask, with a snowman’s charcoal smile and carrot nose. As intended, everyone found it to be delightful. But on my break, I went to the bathroom and pulled it down to reveal my nose looked purple and bloated. I was having an allergic reaction to the wetsuit material.

I came back to the floor carefully pulling down a fresh disposable mask to show my coworkers the disastrous outcome of my wanting to spread holiday cheer. I spent the next two hours pushing dreadful thoughts to the back corner of my mind, but they reared their heads often, “Now I have a wino’s nose without any of the wine... I look like Charles Bukowsi without the bravado… Hopefully we never stop wearing masks.”

I washed my face after work and was very relieved to see my nose returning to normal. My bathroom has the most uninviting smell from a Lysol toilet clip-on I bought thinking I wouldn’t have to scrub the toilet anymore. I scrub the toilet the same amount, but now it smells like it’s in a gas station.

After my kids’ dad dropped them off, he went on and on about how our daughter’s brilliance reminds him of himself as a kid. I looked at him nodding, and said, “Say something nice about the other one now.”

I take pride in my kids’ preference for my house, and because I was spared the pain of being the second choice, I took it all for granted. Lately my daughter’s trailing into daddy’s girl territory, I am trying not to be offended when she says to me, “I wish I were at Dad’s.”

I thought we could bond over baking and remembered a cake mix in the pantry. With my head all the way to the back of the cabinet, I screamed, “Someone stole our muffin mix!”

She yelled back, “Lemon poppy seed?”

“Yes!”

“We made that. A long time ago.”

I vaguely remember, maybe in that back corner of my mind, I can see us eating the cake.

I was trying to win back points when I asked the kids what they want for Christmas. It backfired when my daughter said she wanted a corgi or an iPad, since her dad told me earlier in the week he’s getting her the ladder. I had to tell her to think smaller.

My son said he wants Legos. Last Christmas he became increasingly frustrated when putting a Lego set together, got up and kicked the half built structure against the wall. I made a mental note, if I get him Legos this year, I’ll budget in the $150 visit to Dr. Renee, where they work on anger management by making a water bottle filled with glitter.

That night, after the kids went to bed, I sat on the couch reading, or staring at a smudge on the wall. When I reached the point of nodding off, I put the cat in the laundry room. I piled into the bed with the kids and had the same thought I have every night I get in bed, “Is the front door locked?”

I deliberated for a couple minutes, “I must have checked the lock five times… or maybe I didn’t check it at all.”

As usual, I carefully crawl out of bed trying not to smash someone’s leg or pull their hair, and I check the locks, possibly for the sixth time. I said out loud, “It’s official, I have checked the locks! The door is locked!”

I get back in bed, and go through things that I am happy about. That night, I started with my nose. I pull down the ankles of my sort-of-fresh sweatpants so my legs don’t get cold, and I think about getting those fancy sweatpants which aren’t so expensive with my discount. I could always iron a patch on them to give them a little more pizazz. 

The standing fan is on, muffling the natural creaks of the house that send me into high alert. The humming sound starts taking space, and I feel all my thoughts pressing up against the corners.