Sweatpants rule ruins opportunity
January 5, 2010
“You know, Kevin, I bet you that column gets you in trouble quite a bit.”
Those are the words of somebody we’ll call Really Awesome Reader, because A) he’s a reader who appreciates me sacrificing my pride for a good column and B) he’s probably reading right now and would plan vengeance if I chose a more insulting acronym.
Well, RAR, it’s time to discuss ICG and WSC, and find out one more time if it’s worth it to get in trouble over this little thing I call a weekly column.
We’ll start with ICG. That’s short for Incomprehensibly Cute Girl. She’s a girl. And she’s cute — incomprehensibly so, as a matter of fact. (Yes, ICG does have a name, and much different initials. But since she doesn’t know of her status, those details aren’t going to be revealed.)
I’ve never really gone beyond common conversation with ICG, much to my chagrin, but I have thrown the gauntlet down with mutual friends.
“You know what? I’m not going to beat around the bush,” I said. “Next time I run into ICG, I’m saying hi, I’m laying down just enough charm and I’m asking her out. Point blank.”
And now it’s time that I tell you about WSC. First, have you heard of Murphy’s Law? The blanket statement that anything that can go wrong will go wrong? Well, WSC stands for Wilson’s Sweatpants Corollary, and it translates to, “Anytime you go out in public wearing sweatpants, you can and will run into the people you don’t want seeing you in said sweatpants.” Think of it as the cousin of Murphy’s Law, the one he insists is only related to him by marriage.
A few weekends ago, I planned a quick trip to the store. I would only be there a few minutes, and it was windy. Sounds like adidas time to me. I threw on the gray, triple-stripe cotton/poly sweatpants. To match, the gray, triple-stripe cotton/poly sweatshirt. To match further, the gray cotton/poly hat.
I find it both sad and amusing I purchased this outfit separately. If a friend of mine owned this outfit, I would quote Jerry Seinfeld: “You know the message you’re sending out to the world with these sweat pants? You’re telling the world:’I give up. I can’t compete in normal society. I’m miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.’”
And yes, I was comfortable. Or, I was comfortable for the first 29 seconds of my store run. For in second No. 30, there stood ICG. She was as incomprehensibly cute as advertised, with an outfit to accentuate the cuteness.
Well, ICG didn’t get asked out; she didn’t even know I was there. Fortunately for me, ICG was with a friend who had no idea who I was, and he was unknowingly distracting her from my sweatpant-clad shame. I slunk away, having given up on both society and the opportunity to ask her out that I swore I would never pass up.
I talked to the friend who heard me throw the gauntlet down. I told her, “If I ever complete my autobiography, the chapter about tonight will be called, ‘If Only I Wore Pants.’”
But then again, maybe I should have just abbreviated the story NOYB (you can figure it out) and never mention it again. My RAR had better appreciate this one.