Forever Wrong!

Law B. Itch

I am not, nor have I ever been, a sweat-pant kind of gal. Only if I am going to, or coming from the gym, would I ever be caught in public willfully wearing bulky sweatshirt material on my ass. In fact, I don’t even like wearing sweat-pants while sweating. If I could figure out a way to safely run on the treadmill in a pair of five-inch heels and a pencil skirt, I would.

Yes, yes, of course it's vanity! My silhouette doesn’t appreciate being swaddled in twenty-four ply, preshrunk cotton. Actually, only college kids and pillows can pull off looking good in any fabric built solely for comfort. I have a genetic aversion to padding any of my body parts with spongy, lump hugging, shapeless reams of fleece that cling to my hips courtesy of that gummy synthetic stuff more commonly known as elastic. It’s just not sexy. Give me stiff, crotch-pinching denim with contrasting double stitching and buttons disguised as snaps any day! Besides, tight jeans are an integral part of the cellulite relocation program which, fyi, I invented.

Wait, there’s more. I also have an unnatural affinity for mind-numbing, reality television. By that I do not mean I'm all into the Food Network, mainly because the words, "I can't believe she's going to substitute a mélange of Bisquick and anchovy paste for clam sauce. Brilliant!" will never come out of my mouth.

What I mean is, I spend an inordinate amount of time channel surfing between "Jersey Shore", "Keeping Up with Kardashians", and "Dancing with the Stars". The appeal of this delicious parfait of mind-Novocain is obvious. An excruciating déjà-vu of past college indiscretions (all of which occurring over seven years ago, so if I were to have caught something, it surely would have shown up by now)? Check. A fascination with the seemingly “idiot rich”? Check. An abiding but delusional belief that one day in the not too distant future I, too, could be just famous enough to get on this show? Yup. I mean, check.

What do my sweat-pant prejudice and my reality show infatuation have to do with one another? The connection doesn’t exactly scream, “Hello Captain Obvious!”, I know. But it does explain how I was introduced to “Forever Lazy”.

Forever Lazy. A sex-aid for fat husbands who pray nightly to the Almighty Homer Simpson? Nope.

Forever Lazy. A diner serving nothing but microwavable meals for middle-aged pot-heads? Nuh uh.

Forever Lazy. A one-piece, fleece pajama made large enough to fit over the clothes of grown-ups while tailgating, talking on the phone, or just eating popcorn with pals and other Plushopiliacs? Bingo!

Are you effing kidding me?!? Dude, seriously, if you’re cold, wear a coat.

At first I thought it was a joke. Actually, I was hoping it was a joke, lest my retinas spontaneously combust from the unexpected assault upon them.

My morbid curiosity (and unfortunate insomnia) compelled me to Google this, um, “naught”-couture tent with openings for one’s arms, legs, and yes, sphincter. My Google search quickly led me to the “Forever Lazy” YouTube channel which revealed a whopping 663,000 views.

This was real. Oh, so real.

Forever Lazy needs to be forever gone.

First, in much the same way people need to be over 21 to buy beer, you must also be under twelve to wear one-piece pajamas. When I become president, this will be law.

Second, if an adult is caught outside the home wearing one-piece pajamas, he or she better be en-route to the nearest hospital with second degree burns suffered while doing, what? Setting fire to the one-piece pajamas. Case closed.

Third, owning or wearing grown-up, one-piece pajamas is an indication of adult-onset-fashion- retardation; a condition causing seriously awful and recurrent wardrobe choices, including a love of maxi-dresses, a penchant for anything plaid (and yes, this includes Burberry, sorry) and a willful blindness to the fact that low rise jeans, plus too tight tee shirts, equals muffin top. Always. Don’t do it.

Lastly, if your friends and family hear the phrase “Forever Lazy” and think of you, you don’t need new friends. You need a f*cking job.

Forever Lazy. When you really need to lose the last bit of coolness your Snuggie left behind.



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