Hey, it’s me, your favorite pair of black leggings, and we need to have a serious talk. We’ve had some good times. I will never forget the day eight years ago when you brought me home from Old Navy, or all of the Tinder dates you wore me on. And now, after all those times I’ve been there for you, I’m asking you to be there for me: Please put me out of my misery.
My quality of life is dismal at this point. My elastic is stretched beyond repair. My legs are covered with little thread pills, and we all know that hole in my crotch is not getting any smaller.
I probably would have had another good two years in me, but you have been pushing me so hard in quarantine. I used to seamlessly transition from a day to night look, but you’ve taken that to the extreme by wearing me four days in a row for 24 hours a day. You haven’t even taken me off to shower or change your underwear. What ponte knit pant could be expected to thrive under these conditions? I have gone downhill rapidly to terminally threadbare.
In my heyday, I flattered your figure, no matter how bloated you were from bingeing on Cheez-its, but I am now stretched way beyond capacity. I love you, but when you ordered and then ate an entire Walmart sheet cake while crouching on the couch with your knees tucked underneath you like Gollum, you did irreparable damage to my structural integrity. Every frosting-drenched fiber of my poly-cotton blend is screaming out for the sweet release of death.
Please don’t try to prolong my life. I know you’re thinking that maybe you can summon the strength to peel me off your body, then throw me in the washing machine with a scoop of Oxiclean and a prayer. At best, I only survive another week of your current lifestyle, and at what cost? I don’t want to leave this world a catastrophic, humiliating failure. I’m but one deep squat to check the back of the shelf at Safeway for toilet paper away from ripping into an irreparable chasm, baring your cotton granny panties for all to see. I implore you to let me go now, while one of us still has a shred of dignity.
For my service, I don’t want anything too fancy. Maybe sing a few bars of “Wind Beneath My Wings” and show a tasteful slideshow of all the Instagram photos where you’re wearing me “on your way to yoga,” but you were actually going to Chipotle. (Don’t worry, I will be taking that to my grave.) I know social distancing makes it impossible for people to attend my funeral, I hope my two closest companions, your Bearpaw house slippers and your boyfriend’s over-sized Miami Dolphins sweatshirt, will attend. They’ve been there nearly every day during these last difficult weeks, suffering right alongside me.
When I’m gone, I want you to find new leggings. (Preferably soon, as I honestly don’t know what you’ll cover yourself with when I’m no longer around.) You may think that you’ll never find a pair as reliable as me, but before you know it, you’ll have new go-to bottoms to break-in and eventually ruin with your slovenly behavior.
I don’t know if there’s an afterlife for leggings, but if there is, I like to think that I will be re-made of a more breathable, moisture-wicking celestial fabric, and that there are no cats around to constantly poke me full of tiny holes. It’s time for me to say goodbye, and for you to shepherd me into the next life, as difficult as this task may be. I am at peace and ready for a dignified eternal rest in that great big dresser drawer in the sky.
Wait, is that a Goodwill Donation Center?
You monster.
