Welcome to a special Sunday edition of That’s So Dad. That is what we call it when we forget to write an article on our normal Thursday, a Special Edition.
It is a lazy Sunday in the winter. It is time to lay on the couch, read the Sunday comics, and partake it one of Dad’s Massive Sunday Breakfasts. Although we have discussed the greatness that is the Massive Sunday Breakfast, we have not discussed Dad’s standard Sunday uniform. Sure there is the ubiquitous bathrobe, but there is something much more. The mother of all comfortable Dad clothes, more comfortable than a broken in pair of White New Balances. The sweatpants.
Dad has owned the same pair of sweatpants for as long as you can remember. Odds are, the sweatpants are older than you and have seen more than you will in your adolescent life. They are always six sizes too big, with the drawstring tightened to its break point. A good rule to have in life is that bigger the sweatpants, the more comfortable you will be. Dad lives by this rule because when the sweatpants come on, Dad is mere minutes away from falling asleep in his chair while watching golf. This is great because now Dad won’t yell at you to mow the lawn or shovel the driveway or take out the trash. It is a blissful time.
The sweatpants of course are not clean. Sure they may be fresh out of the wash but they are not clean. Years of spills, grease stains, sweat, and general wear and tear have worn them down to what resembles patch work pants. They may look disgusting but when they are put on it feels like you slipped into a hot bubble bath, a Lay-Z-Boy on a secluded beach, or your toilet at home after a long trip abroad. It is pure magic. That is why the sweatpants continue to live on well after their normal lifespan. Dad cannot let them go, they are magic.
So as you watch Dad slip in and out of his sleep cycle in the recliner, be sure to recognize what makes it all possible. It may be that it is the last day of rest before the work week, or that he is tired from the round of golf he played that morning, or the food induced coma from shoveling down a six egg omelet with more cheese than the entirety of Wisconsin. But odds are it is that old friend that brings him to his comfort zone, the sweatpants.