In Ireland, they call them "fatman pants"

So, you own a pair of sweatpants. They might live with your boot socks, or be shacking up with your long johns in your underwear drawer. They might be laying on the floor, kicked-off and discarded in the corner, or folded neatly on your dresser, in your closet, your armoire. You could be wearing them right at this moment.

That comfortable caressing cotton, that unrestrictive flexible waistband, that perfect little round grease stain complements of the hoagie you ate yesterday afternoon. I'm talkin’ sweatpants, people. But unfortunately, all is not as it seems to be.

Beknownst to me, but unbeknownst to you; that pile of awesome legged comfortableness is far more evil than you could ever imagine. For some fat folk, sweatpants are a gateway. A gateway to another dimension of being.

First, you wear them only in the house, or under your waders when the chill is on.

You wear them in the morning while your shower warms up, or on Sunday afternoon while sitting on the couch eating Cheetos and watching a House marathon.

Then one sweatpant wearing day you do it. It’s just a little thing: going to get the mail, the paper, something out of your car. But even if you realize what just happened, it’s too late. Your are wearing sweatpants in public, and there is no hope for you.

Soon it will be to the store, or the post office, or your uncle Dave’s house to help him patch some drywall. There you are, patching drywall in sweatpants.

You are falling to the death of your self image, and you don’t even know it.

Then one day you and your sweatpants are walking around in Wal-Mart looking for a new grill set and you pass a rack of fanny packs. You stop, slowly turn and look. “Hmm” you say to no one in particular. “A fanny pack… I could keep all kinds of neat stuff in that and my sweatpant pockets are pretty small.”

Fanny pack in hand, on the way to the BBQ aisle, you pass the shoe department and something catches your eye. You, your sweatpants, and your fanny pack walk over to look. Is it? Oh my, they are! Velcro Shoes! Oh Boy! My sweatpants and I could do so many more things if we weren’t wasting all day tying out shoes! Add to that the awesome stuff we could carry around with this fanny pack and we would be unstoppable!

You are so excited you forget about the BBQ set and run home to show your wife all the awesomeness you got. She is not there, only a note:

I have taken the kids and gone to my sister’s house. I just could not handle the sweatpants anymore. You have a problem! Admit it and get help. I just couldn’t have the kids see you like this anymore.

Whatever, she just doesn’t understand. You still got your sweatpants, your fanny pack full of sweetness, and your sweet Velcro shoes. Nobody understands. You don’t have a problem, you can stop whenever you want.

The next thing you know you are friendless, jobless, wifeless, all because one day you wore some sweatpants outside. Think about it.

So remember my hefty brethren, under the waders, or indoors. Leave the traipsing around outside in sweatpants to the skinny folk.

-Alex who may or may not wearing fatman pants at this moment.