Slippery Slope

Those who know me personally can vouch for the fact that looking put-together is barely important to me. Don’t get me wrong: I want everyone to think I’m gorgeous; I just don’t want to actually have to put effort into the process. I smear some eyeliner and mascara close to my eye area early in the morning, and if it sticks, it sticks. If it doesn’t, I guess my winning smile has to do the rest of the work.

There is, however, one area where I will not compromise: I will not wear elastic-waisted pants to the grocery store. Quick definition: elastic waisted pants are things like sweatpants, fleece pants, yoga pants, fat pants, stretch pants….you get the picture. I call them the pants that aren’t allowed to leave the house. When I go to the grocery store I have to put on pants with a zipper. They don’t have to be dress pants, but they at least have to be jeans.*

Why do I do this? Well, I have a theory. My theory is that we are all perched smack dab in the middle of a slippery slope. The top of the slope represents our absolute ideal selves, and the bottom of the slope represents our absolute worst selves. The slippery slope, as its name implies, is slippery, and falling down is easier than it looks, so it takes constant vigilance to make sure that we’re not ten inches lower than we were yesterday. The good news is that we can move up, but it takes hard work.

Now, if you’ve envisioned yourself on your own personal slippery slope as you’ve read this, you might have also envisioned what your worst self looks like. Maybe the bottom of your slope is depression, and your worst self is a crying mess who can’t get off of the couch. Maybe the bottom to you is losing control of your health, and your worst self is massively overweight, and taking thirty prescription medicines a day. Maybe your bottom is professional failure, and your worst self is stuck in an unfulfilling job, with no promise for mobility, and no recognition for your efforts. MY bottom is a loss of self-discipline, and my worst self is a woman who goes to the grocery store in fleece sweatpants with one fuzzy sock and one dryer sheet stuck to the leg.

Now, personally, I see people at the grocery store in much worse get-ups than fleece sweatpants. For some reason, I seem to see a lot of transvestites with 3 days worth of stubble and wigs that are in desperate need of an appointment with a hairbrush. I also see a lot of college-age girls wearing sweats with their sorority letters on them, tee-shirts that don’t quite cover their newly burgeoning spare tire, and last-night’s hair. But the fleece sweatpant, to me, represents a certain level of desperation. They are, essentially, the closest thing to just wearing a blanket out of your house. Basically saying, “Listen, I find the transition from my sleeping self to my waking self too definitive. Let me do something to blur the line.” The addition of the sock and dryer sheet further states, “Fully separating laundry is for suckers. Sockie, we’re going on an adventure!” This is not for me. My fully-ensconced-at-the-mid-point-of-my-slope self says that laundry needs to know its place, and it takes a strong woman to wrestle it into submission.

My rational self tells me that wearing fleece sweatpants to the grocery store will not, in fact, guarantee me a future full of bad, undisciplined choices. I won’t start eating fried Twinkies for breakfast, or abandon my regular exercise schedule for watching Honey Boo Boo marathons on TLC. The part of me that believes in the slippery slope, however, has the voice of Mrs. Sparsit** in my head, warning that one false move will take me down a shamed staircase, which, inevitably ends in a pair of fleecy pants and unmated socks. And that just will not do.


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* The one exception to this rule was last summer when I was studying for the bar.  In those last three weeks, when I was well and fully crazy, I wore shorty shorts and the tiniest tank top I had EVERYWHERE.  The feel of regular-sized clothes on my skin made me start to flail.  Blame the bar exam, not me.   
** Look it up!  That's what Google is for!