Skip to main content

An ode to sweatpants

Ops, I did it again.

This is not a Britney reference. I actually did it again: I woke up this morning, had a cup of coffee (okay, three), brushed my teeth and wore a pair of beautiful, baggy, warm sweatpants.

And then I went out, ready for class and the countless informal meetings throughout the day.

Now, who knows me knows that since approximately 2010 sweatpants have been a sort of uniform for me. 

Before then, I only wore them when I did sports (the last recorded episode of me doing sports dates back to 2007) or when I was feeling depressed. Then, at some point, I started wearing them every day. Maybe because I was chronically depressed or perhaps because I just loved how they made me feel on an inner, visceral level.

I know that if you go out wearing sweatpants, people automatically assume that you have given up on life; you get followed around in shops because they think you’re a thief; people ask you if you work at Sports Direct… that sort of stuff. 

 My friends suddenly turn into the fashion police, they give me a Miranda Priestley look and go like Oh My God Are You For Real?

Whatever.



Besides the warmth and the feeling of the soft fleece lining on my cold legs, the thing I appreciate the most about sweatpants is the sense of power they give me.

Someone once said that if you go out in sweatpants you have lost control of your life. I think it was Karl Lagerfeld. Or maybe Pope Francis.

Anyways, that might as well be true and… absolutely fantastic!

When people think you’ve given up, they immediately lower their standards and expectations. They let go of you. They no longer see you as part of the equation, you’re game over. And suddenly you are free.



But something happened a couple of months ago. I betrayed my sweatpants discipline. I switched back to jeans and – horror – trousers. I also started ironing my shirts and buying perfume. I went shopping, for God’s sake!

Even the most oblivious observer might have guessed that something was up.

Now, I don’t know what it was. Maybe a mid-life crisis, or I was unconsciously trying to impress someone. I just know that, suddenly, my ego was screaming: ‘’Hey, look at me, I can be pretty too if I want to. Uh, yes, of course I’m going to change myself to fit your idea of beauty! And sure, if changing my appearance is the only thing that is going to make you see me as bearable of course I’ll do it!”

Oh screw that!

It’s been a very uncomfortable month. The jacket was too tight, the shoes too rigid, those frigging jeans were cold as hell. And also, while it might have made people perceive me as better-looking, it did not make me more bearable. Overall, I would say it actually had a negative impact on my quality of life.


So this morning I woke up and I picked my favourite pair of black sweatpants. And a matching sweater. Yes, I’m basically wearing a tracksuit. Of course, I am going to keep on wearing fancy clothes when and if I feel like it.


But for now, I am not just wearing this tracksuit, I am OWNING IT. I show it proudly, as an emblem of freedom of rebellion. 

I am free at last.  

Comments

  1. Thanks for sharing this article here about the Sweatpants With Yellow. Your article is very informative and I will share it with my other friends as the information is really very useful. Keep sharing your excellent work.Sweatpants With Yellow Zebu Logo

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Valerio's Press Review: "GQ Magazine, April 2021"

Welcome to Valerio's Press Review, the series in which I read a magazine or newspaper (okay... look at the pictures) and write mean things about the people in them. It's fun! 1) A revitalising afternoon of clam-digging on Southend beach? A day of snorkelling by the port of Dover? Make sure you pack Rolex’s newest submarine watch! You don’t want the fish to think you’re poor.  2) Dolce & Gabbana’s latest collection. The question on everybody’s lips is: do you really want to look like your rich friend’s beach house bathroom? The answer is, and always will be, yes. 3) Sam Claflin for Barbour. A GQ insider told me that his puzzled expression is due to the fact that, for the whole duration of the photo shoot, Sam couldn’t help but wonder if he’d remembered to feed the cat before he left his flat. Models... they’re just like us <3 4) GQ’s Staycation must-have items. If you were stranded on a desert island and you could only bring one item with you, what would it be? Duh! A £32

La (Not So) Dolce Vita

Being Italian has been the single most beneficial asset in my dating life. Growing up in Naples, I was just a guy. In London, I became a “charming” Italian guy. In Milan, my Neapolitan accent is a liability. In the UK, apparently, it’s the sexiest sound known to man (and woman), the immigrant version of the siren song.   After taking residence in the Big Smoke, I quickly realised that Brits have a very precise idea of the Italian man, made up of mainly preconceived notions. They’re harmless for the most part, certainly romanticised, often flattering, but prejudiced nevertheless.   You know what they say: if you can’t beat them, join them. And join them I did. I first came to terms with the extent of my super-power that one time in 2015 when I held the door for a middle-aged woman at a Pret in North London. I said something like “after you” or “good morning” and as soon as she heard the effortless way with which the Rs rolled off my tongue she almost dropped her butternut squash salad o

Getting on with it

A friend of mine messaged me the other day about an opportunity to pitch a piece for a new magazine looking for articles about happiness and well-being. She swiftly withdrew her suggestion upon realising I had literally nothing to contribute to the subject. I can’t seem to shake off the ever so slight suspicion that my particularly abrasive brand of defeatist sarcasm is unlikely to go down well with an audience that’s after feel-good stories for a much-needed start-of-week pick-me-up (that’s enough hyphens for today). Life in the time of Miss Rona is predictably slow. Aside from the customary episodes of wretchedness which stud my life that I have already discussed at length on this platform, I have very little to write about. I am of course binge-watching the Crown (hence me casually using words like “wretchedness”). I have also decided to finally do something about my life-long shampoo addiction and reduce the frequency of my hair washing from once every 24 hours to once every 30 hou