It's the new black.
The next installment of our continuing series of love letters to people, places, or products who we revere—but who will never love us back.
Dear Forever Lazy®,
You had to do it. You had to go there.
No sooner had I (finally) convinced myself that—despite the protestations of my former classmates— leggings are not pants and should not be thought of as pants under any circumstances, you tempt me with your fully-evolved snuggie accoutrements and pop from my television screen to my Christmas stocking. And I thought this was going to be the year I had it all.
It wasn’t bad enough that, after months of hard work on my final dissertation, my college career came to an unsurprising, but nevertheless abrupt, end. That I was thrust, unceremoniously, into the “real world,” which, I found, was much scarier than I thought: scouring through online (read: fruitless) job listings while sitting in my childhood bedroom, a mere three feet from the one occupied by my parents. That I spent my days, watching “Downton Abbey” compulsively and marking every small victory—an e-mail sent, a book read, a trip to the kitchen or bathroom—with a dignified tick on my daily “to do list,” written on a neon sticky note and stuck next to that hideous bunny photo, still reminding me that “Oh yes, you can go home again. And it sucks.”
Before Christmas came, I had already made my New Year’s resolution. I would not become Bridget Jones, but I would find Colin Firth. I would eat better, exercise more, become the proverbial “woman who will make a difference in the world” so touted by my alma mater. I would find my calling and become an example to humanity. Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda.
(For those of you too cultured to know the finer details of this accessory, here is the first commercial. You have been warned.)
When you came into my life, I found a new excuse to avoid getting dressed in the morning. I would totter around the house, sitting in various spots and going through a—quite lazy—morning routine. I would read the first few stories on the NY Times homepage, before watching Jon Stewart and his delicious evisceration of American culture. I would then make my way through Decline and Fall or whichever early 20th-century novel was on the menu that week. It would be close to noon before I would even consider getting dressed, at which point I would rummage through the kitchen cabinet, eventually settling on yoghurt or something I could shame-shovel into my gob before anyone caught me—inevitably realizing that I was home alone. I shame shoveled anyways.
But, Forever Lazy®, I realize I miss you. You’ re stuffed in a drawer because a.) it’s 90 degrees out and b.) I have no time to be “lazy” now that my life has picked up speed. When I was “lazy”, I didn’t spend my mornings rushing to find a proper outfit and attempting to be classy and sophisticated; I spent it reading. Just reading for fun, like I did before essays and dissertations became the sum total of my educational capital. Despite my “laziness”, I rediscovered my intellectual curiosity, and I did it at my own pace. I slowed down. I smelled the roses. I ignored proper hygiene and sat in your fleece-y warmth for hours, even walking my dog around the block when necessary. I forgot proper convention, but I remembered my passion.
So once the autumn months come out, I vow to you that I will drag you out on Saturday mornings. I will read for fun. I will catch up on The Daily Show and the trial of John Bates. I will read The Economist and teach myself about the global economy. I will be lazy, because in my laziness I find activity. I find stimulation. I find the things I want to learn more about.
See you on the flip side, my blanket jumpsuit friend. I’ll bring the Cheez-It box.