A Love Letter To Leggings

by Rita Templeton
Originally Published: 
Ryan McGuire / Pixabay

Dear Leggings,

We’re a lot alike, you and I: hard-working, yet underappreciated. Everybody deserves a little unsolicited appreciation once in a while, and Leggings, I think it’s high time you had your moment in the spotlight.

You tend to get a bad rap. There are people out there who think you’re the worst, and waste no time telling the entire internet why everyone else should hate you too. “Leggings aren’t pants!” they love to say. Yeah, well, paper plates aren’t dishes either, but somebody’s damn sure snatching them up in droves at Costco.

Leggings, you’re my most supportive friend. Versatility is your middle name. You’re the perfect solution to those weird garments that leave me asking, “Is this a long shirt or a short dress?” Your elasticity allows me to work out (or to just pair you with some athletic shoes and a gym tee shirt and make it appear that I just worked out). I can throw on a flannel and a scarf and some boots and be both comfy and fashionable. I can pair you with a tunic and flats and pearls and look polished and pulled-together, like I didn’t just sleep in you the night before. Because, yes, you are also the perfect pair of pj pants.

You’re forgiving, hugging my curves even on the most bloated of days. Since you call for a longer top, you help me disguise my lumpy bits. I can gain 10 pounds and my jeans will rebel against me, but you embrace those 10 pounds and save me from feeling like crap because my pants don’t fit. Because you always fit — even when I overdo it at the buffet. I never have to unbutton you because you’re threatening to cut off my circulation. I never need to rush home to change into comfortable pants, because guess what? You are my comfortable pants!

You have no buttons to pop off, no zippers to get stuck or embarrass me when I accidentally walk around town with it at half-mast for hours like I did that one time. You will never give me a muffin top because I can literally pull you up to my boobs — you’re like Spanx, but not the kind that makes me feel like I’m being swallowed by a boa constrictor.

I can bend over freely without fear that my buttcrack will be on full display. And speaking of bending over, your beautifully stretchy nature allows me to enjoy a full range of motion. Because who knows when I might need to, you know, do a lunge or deliver a swift roundhouse kick to someone’s face? Hey, it could happen. And when it does, I’ll be prepared.

Best of all, Leggings, you allow me to make a bold statement to anyone who says there are people who “shouldn’t wear leggings”: Here is my body, and I will continue to clothe it in whatever I damn well please. Lumps and bumps and gap-less thighs and all. They don’t like it? Then they can watch me take big, flexible, unrestricted steps in the other direction. Too-da-loo and good day.

Let the naysayers scoff. I’ll be over here with my stems wrapped in your soft, sleek comfort. I’ll be shopping from my computer on Amazon and in-store at Target, going full beast mode at the gym, eating ice cream on my couch, leaping through fields of daisies, and sleeping like a baby, all in the one article of clothing versatile enough to have me covered through anything: That’s you, Leggings. That’s you. And you’re awesome, no matter what the haters say. They’re probably just mad because their jeans don’t allow for proper air circulation.



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