It struck me, while out walking my dog on the last morning of my Christmas holidays, that the next day, I would be heading back to work, and as such, I was going to need pants. 

Ugh. Pants.

Let me clarify, I was wearing pants while I walked my dog, Scout. I promise. It was chilly outside. Look, I’m all for taking risks, but I prefer mine to be calculated risks and even I know freeze bite can get through unshaven legs, okay? (Don’t judge that last line – you’re no better).  

So, I layered up from head to toe in whatever gear I could throw on quickly enough to drag my backside off the chair and strut my little pooch down the laneway for that smidgeon of exercise that I never want to do until I’ve done it and realize, movement feels good. Even in pants. 

This fact surprises me every time. I’m not even kidding. I think that’s a positive thing. Let me have that one.

It’s sort of like how I’m surprised my pants don’t fit as great as they did before Christmas; a fact that also surprises me after every family celebration that involves gravy and stuffing, a platter of shrimp, and a tray of Toffifay. 

This too surprises me every time. That’s probably a less positive thing. Let that one pass.

For the duration of the holiday, I made a mockery of my jogging pants by not jogging even one time. Take that, pants. 

My lounge pants were the alternates, used only when the Carpenter gave me that sideways glare that suggested I was pushing the whole “wreckless abandon” chic fashion a little too far. 

It’s not so much that his opinion matters, but sometimes he has a point. I may be sending the wrong mating signals. Fine. Leggings it is, with a long shirt. The illusion is really the trick.

My bright-blue flannel drawstring pajama pants with white polar bears all over them are my favourite. Polar bear is the affectionate nickname the Carpenter gave me years ago, because I was always cold. I think the whole menopausal thing makes me a melting polar ice cap now, so he should probably call me Climate Change (I’m really going to regret writing that).

Alas, Scout and I got to the end of the laneway before I realized that my walking fashion choices were, well, eclectic. Burgundy Blundstones, polar bear pants, a long, coral pillowed coat with a dark green toque, accented with a fluff of fake fur, and the matching mittens for my hands. 

But the accessory that really tipped the scales was my Irish wool scarf, a rainbow of pinks and purples, that I wrapped around my neck to stop the chill. 

Apologies to the courier driver who had to see that. I forgot it was daylight. 

When Monday morning arrived, I begrudgingly coaxed my body into my appropriate office attire pants.  Neither one of us were thrilled about it. 

First thing I’m doing when I get home tonight? Swapping my office pants for jogging pants and strutting to the end of the laneway with Scout. Movement feels good.

Pants? Ugh. Damn you, Toffifay.

Get moving. Wear pants.

WriteOut of Her Mind