An Open Letter to My Active Wear

Dear Yoga Pants and Assorted Hoodies,

Oh, my sweet dears. We have been through so much together the last 6 years or so. From about the minute I found out I was pregnant, you have been a staple in my wardrobe. And really, staple is putting it mildly. Staple implies that yes, you are worn quite frequently, but that there are other rotations in the mix. Let’s be honest; there are not. Unless it’s on a Sunday for 2 hours.

I realize there are people that wear you with the full intention of using them how God and Lulemon designed. I am not one of those people. Hey, Yoga Pants? Remember like 11 years ago when I wore you at my one and only yoga class? And then I almost died from pain and swore off yoga forever? Yeah. Good times. But in the ensuing days, you brought me much comfort and relief. Thank you for that.

My gosh, how do I even tell you how much y’all mean to me? You were with me at the hospital when I had that nasty c-section scar and couldn’t wear anything that would rub against it. You know what saved me? I’m looking at you, Wide-band Maternity Yoga Pants. And really, while we are on the subject, let’s be honest. All yoga pants should be WIDE-BAND post childbirth. There is no substitute unless you have the body of Gisele or other such freaks of nature. You hear that, Athleta? Think of it like support hose for my abdomen. If you can’t make yoga pants that hold everything up, don’t make them at all. I’m your target market; trust that. No pun intended since I have bought varying numbers of you at the Target. {In my defense, I was only there for diapers and wipes. But who can resist the Champion Active Wear section? Not this chick.}

Oh, Active Wear. You know how much of a hypocrite I can be. Like back in the day when I knew everything {before children and the ‘burbs humbled me}, I used to make fun of the people who would shower, blow out their hair, put on makeup, and then, yup, you guessed it, pick out a fresh pair of yoga pants and the ever-forgiving  hoodie. Or Febreezed it, what-ev. Details.

It struck me as I left the salon that day, freshly-cut and blown-out, hopped in my ever-practical and family-friendly SUV, and headed towards the carpool lane — I have become everything that I said I wouldn’t. But you don’t stand in judgment of me. You get it. And quite frankly, we just get each other.

I can honestly say that I don’t remember life without you. Oh, we’ve been through some times, haven’t we? And you know that I have tried to give you up. People would be all like, “Your husband needs to find you sexy – keep that spice in your marriage…yada… yada.” Hey, you know what, AW? {Can I call you that? I feel like we are tight like that but don’t want to be presumptuous.} I apparently hit the husband lottery. The other day a new hoodie arrived {God bless Nordstrom and free shipping}, and get this, my husband said, “Honey, is that a new hoodie? Love the color! Wanna have sex?” See, I still got it. Honestly, he just wants to get him some. I don’t blame him. He doesn’t give a darn what I’m wearing because he’d prefer I not be wearing anything at all. So why go through the effort because it’s all still working for me. Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.

I’ve cheated on you. I’ve bought the latest and greatest trends with full intention of leaving you in the drawer where you belong. And sometimes, I do wear those. And I feel pretty good when I do. But you know what’s even better? When I get home, somehow flip flop around on the floor to pull off those skinny a$% jeans {thank you Lord that flares are making a comeback – at least that’s what I hear through the fashion grapevine}, and dive straight into your deliciousness. That is my form of heaven on earth.

There will come a day when we can no longer be together. I can only assume that when I hit the 4-0 or 4-5, I may have to give you up forever. Just like I had to give up baseball caps in lieu of your dear friend, the bun and headband. I’m already dreading the day when we may have to separate. And at some point I will have to give up the uniboob and embrace an actual bra. <shudder>.

Trust you will be missed. I suppose there’s always the off-chance that I will actually take an exercise class again, and then you will be acceptable for such a time as this. Fingers crossed, but don’t hold your breath.

Until then, I am faithfully yours.

All my love and handles,

Meagan

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Meagan is a Dallas native who has lived in the Katy area for over a decade. She kicked a soccer ball all the way to Louisiana to attend college at her family’s alma mater of LSU, where she promptly fell in love with a Texas Aggie in Baton Rouge for an internship. After swimming back to Texas following Hurricane Katrina, Matt and Meagan fell in love with the Houston area and now couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Following several years of infertility, their miracle twins Ryan and Quinn were born in June of 2010. She believes there is nothing better than a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio, a large Sonic Diet Coke, sushi take-out, Girls Nights Out, and a mindless book to curl up with. Besides playing chauffeur and catering to the whims of her children, Meagan also is the Co-Owner of Houston Moms Blog. You can keep up with Meagan at The Clanahan Fam and on Instagram @meaganclanahan!

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