Death of the Perfect Yoga Pants
I have the right to be.
I have just laid to rest something that has been with me for almost nine years. Something that has seen me through three pregnancies and three sleepless newborn phases. Something that has seen me gain and lose sixty pounds three times over and never once judged or mocked me. Something that brought me comfort on the coldest of days and understanding after the largest of Thanksgiving meals. A constant companion to me, always forgiving, kind and supportive.
Today, my favorite pair of black yoga pants died.
I've known, for quite some time, that this day was coming. Last year, the seams along the ankles slowly began coming apart. I ignored the frayed edges, not wanting to admit to myself what they really meant. When the crotch began to give out a few months ago, I resigned myself to only wearing them in comfort of my own home, or at the very most with an over-sized shirt at school pick up and drop off.
The end was coming, I could sense it.
Today, I realized that the fabric, once thick and opaque was almost transparent, it had become so thin. Between the disappearing crotch, the frayed ankles and the almost non existent fabric, my precious pants were dissolving before my very eyes. I knew it was time to gather the courage to say goodbye. Holding back tears, I buried them under peeled potato skins and old crumpled up band-aids in the kitchen trash, as not to be tempted to resurrect them like that thrown away chocolate cake I simply can't resist. I know myself well.
Sure, you say, there will be other black yoga pants. In fact, there are other black yoga pants in my life, nine pairs of them, to be exact. But, there are none that flare out at the bottom just like that pair did. There are are none that are slimming in the hips and flatten out my belly, but are as comfortable as loose fitting flannel pajamas. There are none that lift my ass, just so and are thin enough to wear in the heat of summer. We had history, my pants and I, and there are none that even come close to comparing.
I'll continue my never ending search for the perfect pair of black yoga pants, but I know it will be futile. That kind of love just doesn't happen twice in a lifetime. Perhaps there was something magical about them, anyway. I'm not even sure where they came from to begin with, with their lack of label and seemingly sudden appearance in my dresser drawers. It must have been the universes's gift to me: The perfect pair of black yoga pants. A gift, but all too brief. Perhaps it would have been better to never have known perfection like that at all.
My friends: Love your favorite pair of yoga pants. Treasure them. Appreciate them. Line dry them. Extend their life by never actually doing yoga in them.
You may not want to admit it, but they won't be around forever.
It's a lesson I learned the hard way.