I have a best friend. 

Like any best friend, she has changed my life. Small ways. Big ways. In-between ways. 

One such change is recent. I’m not sure if it’s positive, but I love it all the same. 

It’s kind of like the time our other friend convinced me to buy that tight, low-cut shirt in high school. Willie told me I couldn’t wear it to class. 

Being 17, I suggested maybe I should wear it to church instead. 

That was when Willie told me I couldn’t wear it anywhere. 

Anyway, one night a few years ago, we were having dinner when my friend said if she’s in for the evening — which she usually is, being an introvert like myself — she immediately removes her pants. 

I was captivated by this policy of hers. “So you just walk around in your shirt and underwear?” I asked, incredulous. 

“Yes,” she said.  

You know, we’ve been friends since we were 11.  

I always knew she was smart.  

Now I think she might be a genius. 

I mean, yes. We teased her about it. I can’t tell you how many times we knocked on her front door, yelling for her to put her pants on before opening it to us. 

We’re friends. That what’s friends do. 

Sure, I already had my own version of my friend’s pants-free life. It began when my kids were little. Once I tucked them into bed, I’d change into pajamas. 

But that was eight o’clock at night. Many nights, I’m settled in by six. That’s two whole hours I could be comfortable. Cozy, even. 

One day, like a virus, the sans pants movement overtook my body. Dinner was cleaned up. The dishwasher was chugging away. The sofa and Roku beckoned. 

And suddenly, I couldn’t stand my jeans. 

I felt compressed. Imprisoned. The fly digging into my belly? The waistband gripping my flesh? I couldn’t take it. 

I rushed to my bedroom and shed those denim bastions. I grabbed a pair of sweats because nobody needs to see my bare thighs.  

I mean, nobody.  

Have you ever seen a roll of chicken loaf at the deli? Before it’s sliced for sandwiches? The pale, wet-looking, greyish beige of processed chicken? 

That’s what my thighs look like. 

Lloyd’s of London might insure them for, like, seven cents.  

Total. 

More, if you could eat them like chicken loaf. 

The freedom, the liberation, of being in those sweats at six o’clock — it felt indulgent. Decadent. Relaxing.  

As I went about my days, I’d think of my sweats. We’re here, they’d say in my head. We’re waiting for you. We love you. Come home to us. 

That’s not weird. No, it isn’t.  

You spend weeks getting the what-for from Willie’s friends because you moved her to assisted living. I promise your sweatpants will start talking to you, too. 

Now, you might think this is where the problems began. Sweatpants calling to me like Pennywise the Clown calls to the villainous bully in Stephen King’s It. Like Dracula calls to Renfield. Like the voices call to the soccer team in Yellowjackets. 

Dude. Are you not watching Yellowjackets? Please. Put on your talking sweatpants and watch Yellowjackets. It’s like Mean Girls and Alive/ Society of the Snow had an evil little baby. 

Anyway, it wasn’t the talking sweatpants that became the problem. 

The problem started on the days that, for me, ended at three. 

Three! An extra five hours of no pants! 

But, I — I couldn’t really change into sweats at three. Could I? 

I compromised with myself. Leggings instead of sweats. With boots, I could be presentable in seconds if, I don’t know, a policeman called to say he had a very frozen Willie in his patrol car. 

And a button-down flannel. That’s almost an Oxford shirt. Hand me a briefcase and I can negotiate a multimillion-dollar trans-Atlantic deal. 

For what, I don’t know. Whatever my sweatpants tell me to negotiate, I guess. 

Listen. At least I’m not like these people, who shed their outside clothes for inside clothes because of germs.  

That’s just — huh. I never thought about that. Germs.  

They do have a point. 

BuzzFeed says — to really lean into the pants-free life — I need an instant potato warmer and something called a Cup Cozy.  

Which has me wondering. Is there a pants-free life social media account out there? 

Hold on. Googling. 

Pants-free life. 

Huh. Well.  

It seems now I have a whole new set of problems. Did not want to see that on my internet. 

As I’m typing this, my jeans — ugh. They’re so restrictive. 

Wait. What’s that?  

Oh. I’m coming, Sweatpants. I know you’ll make it better. 

Gotta go.