All Sweats Are Off
Dear Target,
Today, I bought a brand new pair of your beautiful, plush, sweats. I rushed home, took off the tags, threw them on, and cozied up to watch FENCES starring Denzel Washington. Why? Because I wanted to watch an American Tragedy.
I DID NOT BARGAIN ON BECOMING ONE.
The relationship between a woman and her most comfortable sweats is a sacred one. In many cases we wear our sweats when we’re at our most vulnerable: covered in a light dusting of Doritos. Our hair is up, our makeup is off, our defenses down. My sweatpants give me comfort, coverage, and occasionally serve as a napkin.
But not today.
As Denzel was giving the best self-directed performance I’ve ever seen, I felt an airy current drift up my nether regions. “Confusing,” I thought. But returned back to the film.
Then, as Viola Davis’ snot poured down her face while she “exhumed the dead,” I was interrupted by yet ANOTHER AIRY BREEZE.
Officially concerned. I sucked the Dorito dust from my fingers, placed my chips and dip on the coffee table, and paused the film to investigate my breezy bottom. What I discovered, no trusting woman would ever have suspected.
MY SWEATPANTS HAD RIPPED IN TWAIN DOWN MY CROTCH AND I HAD BEEN SITTING THERE WATCHING AUGUST WILSON’S FENCES WITH MY BEAVER TO THE BREEZE.
Let me tell you what is awful: buying a brand new pair of pants, perfectly intact, taking off all their tags, sitting motionless on a couch, and having them disintegrate ON DAY ONE. This was a betrayal that only Viola’s character could understand.
Target. I expect more of you. And I expect more from sweatpants.