Don’t Cry For Me Argentina…Pants

Most of us have at least one old item of clothing that we hang onto for the simple reason that it’s comfortable to wear. Never mind that it’s old, frayed, and often permanently stained with something or other. We resist the pleas from friends and family to purge our wardrobe of the offensive item because, as we reason, we’d then have nothing to wear when we are sick, or just feeling fat and lumpy. To consider that the item of clothing in question makes us appear sick or fat and lumpy anyway never seems to cross our mind.

For me, that perfect piece of comfy wear was an oversized pair of sweatpants once owned by my ex-husband. I’d borrowed them at some point during the last years of our marriage, because I was sick and wanted something large and not constrictive to my waist. It ended up being the only personal item of the man’s that I kept after I made sure all the rest of his stuff was out of my house.

The sweats were dark blue, paint splattered, and hid my figure perfectly. To my daughters’ horror (“You’re wearing those?!”), I was not at all embarrassed to wear them to the grocery store or Walmart for a quick errand run. Those sweats were worn for comfort only. Looking fashionable or attractive was not a big priority whenever I put them on.

Then I met someone who not only thought that I was beautiful, but who actually cared about ensuring that I looked and felt attractive. Gary loathed my blue splattered sweatpants, complaining that they hid one of his favorite features of mine, my butt. He once complained, “You could hide Argentina in those pants, and have room to spare!” He was right. Below the tightly cinched waistband of those pants there was room for my butt and another fair sized posterior, with wiggle room to spare.

One day I had a nasty sinus infection, and Gary insisted on taking me to the doctor. I was, as per my normal habit, already wearing my old baggies. Gary was sweet enough to not complain about my choice of attire, considering that I was already a hacking, snot filled mess. When he was doing laundry a few days later, however, he did mention how much he still hated those pants, which he’d since dubbed the Argentina Pants. (Yeah, besides telling me all the time how pretty I am and trying to spoil me rotten, Gary does laundry—and cooks too! Just two of the reasons that I may let him out of my life in about a thousand years or so.)

I made Gary a promise that if I got something comfy to replace them with, I would throw the Argentina Pants away. As he hated the pants, and was no fan of their former owner, Gary got me to an Old Navy as soon as possible. There I picked out a new pair of lounge pants to replace the old. I got home, and, with some sadness, threw the AP’s away.

There was only one problem. The new pants, although cute and much more form fitting, were not nearly as comfortable as the Argentina ones. I missed those big, oversized, stained, splattered, hideous looking things. I no longer possessed any item of clothing as comfy as they had been.

But my Old Navy sweats, now over a year old, are starting to grow on me. Although not as warm and roomy in the hindquarters as the Argentina Pants, they are becoming a great substitute. They are now pretty thoroughly stretched out, and possess a mysterious stain on the left leg. I wear them every chance I get, especially when I don’t feel all that great, or don’t feel the need to do the hair and make-up thing. I’ve already started wearing them when I run errands.


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