Stretchy is the New Black

I've become one of those women. I'm a lycra-clad, visor-sporting, ponytail-wearing mom who struts around town in glorified pajamas.  I used to look at those women and think, "Can't you do better than that? Maybe a pair of jeans or a flowy skirt?" Stretchy pants were for yoga class, NOT for the daily grind.  Oh, but how misdirected I was.

Because I spend so much time training, my wardrobe has morphed into what looks like the clearance rack at Sports Authority.  I now own more running shorts and yoga pants than I do jeans and shorts.  In my dresser drawers you will find more sports bras than actual attractive bras, along with more workout and race shirts than actual blouses whose function is to be stylish and flatter my figure.  My shoe rack sports approximately 9 pairs of running shoes - most are too worn out to run in - and just as many flip flops.  My cute work shoe wardrobe, oh I have some great shoes, sits lonely in the corner collecting dust, my dark brown faux suede ankle boots, my beautiful gray faux leather riding boots, and my 3-inch black Mary Janes have all been mercilessly overshadowed by shoes that I now refer to lovingly by pet names such as Cadies (my Brooks PureCadence), Ravers (my Brooks Ravennas), Old Faithful (my Brooks Adrenaline 9, still my favorite shoes ever), and my Sweat Hogs (my Asics Gel Lyte 33 minimal shoes).  I own 6 pairs of swimming goggles: tinted, clear, racers, green, blue, and purple, and I have about 15 pieces of tri clothes, including 3 full suits and multiple separates.  Plus, there are the cycling shorts, cycling jerseys, swim suits, blah blah blah.

My days as of late are spent working out, writing, driving, and waiting.  I quit my job to do this, and I don't have any regrets about the decision.  For about 5-6 hours out of every day, I drive my children to every corner of town multiple times, and then I wait for them so that I can drive them to yet another location.  Nothing I do requires me to wear my cute army green sleeveless cute cargo vest with my black ankle pants, and it is pointless to sit in a car while wearing my navy blue belted dress that always reminded me of Mary Tyler Moore when I wore it.  

So here I am today with a wardrobe that has evolved out of both hobby and function. I find myself without makeup most days, hair pulled tautly back in a ponytail, and sporting very black and very stretchy yoga pants.  Some days I miss playing dress up, and exchanging words with others about my cute shoes or where I found my moonstone drop earrings.  But most days, I just want to be comfortable.

My new work wardrobe is that of mom on the run, wannabe athlete, and always 5 minutes behind schedule.  It's life, and I'm living it every day.  In stretchy pants.

The Guilt Monster

It's a fine line to walk, this triathlon hobby I participate in.  I often tell my husband that it's a selfish thing that we do.  The training sessions can be long, meaning that our children (older and responsible, but still) are left to care for themselves sometimes.  The training sessions can be tiring, meaning that helping with homework, cooking supper, and doing the mundane responsibilities that are part of life can take longer and add a little more stress to things when you are physically and mentally drained.  There is work that, for my husband, means 12 hour days away from the house, and having to find time to fit in a run or a ride or a swim either at 4 in the morning or quickly at lunch or at 8 at night.  For me, I work at home in the mornings and I am on chauffeur duty every afternoon.  Fitting it every single thing that has to be done at work, at home, for the kids, and for me can be tough.  The guilt monster shows his scary face on a regular basis.

Naturally, I feel guilt about doing something expensive and time-consuming, being a mom and all.  I did sign some kind of invisible agreement when I gave birth swearing that I would devote every ounce of time, energy, and piece of myself to my children until they turn 18, right?  Right.

Martyrdom doesn't suit me at all.

I would be lying if I didn't admit that I envy the folks I know who either don't have kids, or whose kids are grown and they are able to devote all of their time to triathlon, or running, or sky diving, or glass blowing, or whatever so-called selfish hobby they've taken up.  I would be lying if I said I don't feel judged - even though I've never heard a cross remark from anyone besides my mother - about having children and dragging them to race weekends or going out on 3 hour training rides while they are at home or hanging out with their friends.

Should I have just waited until it was MY turn, until they are grown up and have moved on?  NO.  Why is that?

Because I saw an opportunity, and I took it.  Because I recognized the chance to improve my body and my spirit and be a more active mom and a happier mom, and I seized it.  Because I knew that my kids could learn that nothing worthwhile is easy, that it comes from hard work and falling down and picking yourself up and carrying on.  But yet, I still feel the weight of the guilt monster sitting on my shoulders.


Guilt is an ugly thing, and most times it is uncalled for.  But it isn't nearly as ugly as the pain of regret.