Y’all know that I suffer from Yogurtpantitis. For the non-medically inclined, this is an addiction to yogurt pants.
(If I thought you had the time and energy to read a footnote, I’d write one. But I know you don’t, so I’m just gonna lay this out here: The derivation of the term “yogurt pants” starts with a visit to my friend in Jersey where she lives a life surrounded by stores that carry actual clothing and not rags from China. Since I hadn’t been in an actual store in over a year, I was a little stunned by the sheer abundance of it all. So when she said to me, “Let’s go look for yoga pants,” I willingly went. I know my friend has never done anything yoga-like in her life, but she went on and on about the merits of yoga pants to the point where she seduced me into buying a pair. Then she suggested that we actually take a yoga class. So I went. Then I found out what was really going on – there’s a frozen yogurt bar just inside the yoga studio. She never makes it past the bar because it is wonderful. Frozen, creamy goodness in pants so comfy you can have two scoops (or four). Yogurt pants. A revelation. And now an addiction.)
Sometimes my addiction bothers me. Shouldn’t I put on actual clothes? Real pants? Real shoes? I have a closet full of designer suits and fur coats. What happened to me?
I soothe myself with the thought that I won’t, won’t, even go to the end of the driveway for the newspaper in my pajamas – let alone to the food store – but this is little comfort. I should buck up. Zip up. Rejoin society.
And then I remember the society in which I live. The Poconos. Where anything goes. That creepy, old, toothless, crusty guy in the ripped flannel sitting next to you might be a millionaire. Or just creepy, old, and toothless. You can never tell. Bad weather and thinner air are levelers of the societal playing field in the Poconos. That and gun ownership.
With this, I let myself off the hook: I bathe. I recycle. I use spell-check. Yogurtpantitis does not make me a bad person. Just badly dressed. Surely, not the worst.
And then, I found her: The Paris Hilton of the Poconos (hopefully, without the jail time).
I was standing on line waiting to get a cheap rabies shot for my dog, along with every other human in Milford Township, when I noticed a woman in line who put me to shame.
She had on the same vintage, red-plaid, Woolrich hunting coat that I’d worn in my old life with a sense of irony (a hunting coat in the city? I’m such a scamp). But she’d upped the ante by adorning it with not one, but two, NRA Lifetime Membership patches.
But she didn’t stop there: She accessorized with a camouflage baseball hat with that fish-Christian symbol on the front. It wasn’t the fanny pack or the cigarette that put her over the top.
No, it was the YOGURT PANTS with the CAMO STRIPES up the sides that made me bow down before her. That is Pocono Fashion and she is now my idol.