Crime of comfort: wearing sweatpants in public shows a lack of effort, still not cool

348 and Maine street: Polartec and puff: woes of Bowdoin’s winter wardrobe

It is tempting, I know, to give up. Between the never-ending snow squall and ever-building mountain of homework begging for your procrastination, I understand the impulse to just throw in the towel, throw on a couple of sweatshirts and give in to false allure of Bean Boots.
Yes, it is a cruel, cold world and it seems like most of each day consists of deciphering parking bans and trying not to disappear into snow banks. Yes, it is a mighty struggle to get out of bed and confront outdoor temperatures that make you question whether this blasted place is even fit for human habitation. And yes, it takes an unsettling amount of time to convince yourself that going to class or having human interaction is more important than staying home in your footie pajamas and binge-watching “House of Cards.” But I implore you, do not give up on getting dressed and looking halfway presentable.
But, I hear you protest, it’s a herculean task just to brave the elements to accomplish the essentials—attending class, getting food and coffee, and going to parties. These, you say, are the bare necessities of the collegiate experience; I can’t possibly be bothered to do any more when the earth is this frigid and I have so much work to do. I don’t have time for basic hygiene, you claim, let alone getting dressed like a self-respecting human being.

348 and Maine street: With spring in your step: dressing for April showers

And then, suddenly, spring was upon us. It happened without warning while you were sleeping, like Lindsay and Oprah’s friendship or Kimye’s Vogue cover.There seems to be some confusion as to what spring is. Perhaps it is easier to say what spring is not: It is not winter and it is not summer. Shocking, I know, but I have it on good authority from scientists and my kindergarten teacher that spring is, in fact, it’s own season.
I thought this was common knowledge, but it turns out, like the whereabouts of Amanda Bynes or the Malaysia Airlines flight (my theory is that she hijacked it), spring is unclear.
It seems, thanks to global warming toying with our seasons like Blue Ivy plays with her Bugattis, we’ve forgotten what spring is. Well it’s time spring got the respect it deserves.
What spring is not is wearing the same clothes you’ve been wearing all winter, only fewer of them.
Flannel, for example, is strictly a winter affair, and just because you can now wear it without a coat does not mean you should. In fact, you shouldn’t.
The same goes for your bulky winter sweaters, your down vests and your fleece-lined pants. There is a time and place for all these things. But that time is not now and the place is not here.
A word on shoes: I appreciate that spring is a particularly tricky time for dressing your feet. Puddles abound and navigating your way to class without falling into one is a treacherous game. But this does not mean you should continue to wear your winter boots.
We know that Bean Boots are a horror and an assault on the senses, and that has never been more true than now.
Wear Hunters or some other rain boot if you must. It is the rainy season, and your feet are probably going to get wet. That is, they are going to get wet unless you are able to use your eyes and see the puddle coming up ahead and, imagine, avoid it.
If you can look where you’re going—any preschooler can teach you how—you can wear whatever shoes you want. Maybe something a little less clunky and a little more fun.
And then, on the other hand, we have the people who think that just because the sun is finally shining, it is suddenly and magically a day at the beach in August.
Here’s the thing: it isn’t. So take your flip flops off and go to class.
When the temperature slips above fifty, I know it is tempting for some of you—though I really can’t understand why—to wear shorts all the time, always and forever. Do not do this. You look extraordinarily foolish and overeager.
Shorts should be approached gradually and with caution, and only after the thermometer has topped 65.
But if you must wear shorts, please, for the love of Oprah and all that is good, keep to muted colors and pastels, and throw out the ones that fall in the same family of hues as road signs and stop lights.
And, really, I’m looking out for your health and comfort.
Dress for a summer heat wave, and you’ll freeze to death after the sun goes down.
Bundle up for a winter squall and you’ll have a heat stroke midday. The only way to survive spring is to dress appropriately for the season.
So put on your bunny suit, pick up a basket of eggs and matzoh, and hop on your merry way.

348 and Maine street

Crime of comfort: wearing sweatpants in public shows a lack of effort, still not cool

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Evan Horwitz

Columnist

March 28, 2014

I thought we had evolved beyond this. I really thought we had. It was foolish of me to think so. But I really hoped, for a moment at least, that we could actually be civilized and prove we are better than our neanderthal ancestors or our mouse cousins or our martian counterparts. (I don’t know anything, obviously, about genetics or astronomy.)

What is this atrocity of which I speak? What is this disgrace to our species? No, it’s not that we still can lose whole airplanes in this age when our every movement is tracked and satellites can see an ant take a shit under a house.

It’s also not that the Russians still think it’s acceptable to take any piece of land that Vladimir Putin wants to use to frolic shirtless with his horses or play the so-called most dangerous game with Angela Merkel. And it is not even that anyone still can’t marry everyone else.

All these things are, of course, disgraceful.

But the real tragedy of the human race—one that plays out day after day after day—is that people wake up in this country—at this school even—and of their own free will put on sweatpants and go forth into the world.

We are, it seems, worse than the chimpanzees, for they don’t think it acceptable to drape themselves in fraying fleece and tattered terry cloth.

Yes, here and now I declare sweatpants an enemy of the people worse than Putin and Malaysia Airlines combined. Until last week, Fred Phelps was Public Enemy Number One, but now he is gone and rotting in a hell-hole with Hitler and Bermuda shorts.

If you must wear sweatpants in the comfort of your home when you have a date with Ben and Jerry and Lindsay and Oprah, I have no objection—as long as you don’t tell me about it. But as soon as you step outside, you expose the world to the horror of sweats, and you yourself become a blight on humanity.

Why can’t we be bothered to make a little effort and get dressed and care a little more about looking presentable?

Why must we be comfortable all the time? Why must we dress as if to take a nap, anywhere and anytime?

Comfort, I think, is overrated. It seems as if the only thing we care about is being comfortable.
When did we lose the ability to make an effort in our clothing choices? I’m not advocating for a return to corsets, but you could at least put on some blue jeans—ones that are less than 90 percent elastane. I’m not even saying that pain is beauty. But I am saying that beauty is not sweatpants.

I don’t care if you call them yoga pants or jogging pants or lounging pantaloons. I don’t care if Kanye endorses them or claims he invented them. I don’t care if they’re for sale at Bergdorf’s or on the cover of Vogue.

Please, resist the urge to be comfortable all the time, even if Anna Wintour tells you it’s okay.
Grow up and put on some real pants. And after you’ve taken off your sweatpants, take them (and your Uggs while you’re at it) and burn them.

You’ll thank me later, when Putin doesn’t confuse you for a sack of potatoes and eat you for breakfast. Instead, he’ll see you as a civilized human being. He still might eat you for breakfast, but you’ll look damn good as he does.

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