At the library, I walked up a flight of stairs a few steps behind a young woman wearing leggings, and I appreciated her butt but didn't say so. It got me thinking about something, and also about leggings.

I'd never heard the word and would've called them 'yoga pants', until a meeting at work a few years ago, where the boss read the company dress code, out loud. Along with the expected bullshit about "No open-toe shoes" and "No ripped jeans," he read, "No leggings."

At that, the prettiest woman in the office admitted that she was the reason he was reading the rules. She said she'd been scolded for wearing leggings a few days earlier.

What the fuck are leggings? I wondered, so "What the heck are leggings?" I asked, and she explained that 'leggings' are stretchy, skin-tight pants that are very comfortable, and nobody's supposed to be comfortable at work.

"No leggings" must be a common workplace rule, because it came up again at my last job. A female co-worker's desk was near mine, and when she returned from lunch one afternoon, she said to me, "Don't tell anyone about my leggings."

Clueless as usual, I asked, "Huh?" and she explained that she'd spilled something on her pants and put on leggings instead, which aren't allowed.

"Jeez, that's stupid," I said. "Why would Haugen & Dahl care about your pants?"

"I guess they think leggings are too sexy," she said and laughed, and I said nothing because we were at work, but I'll say it now.

Leggings are kinda sexy, but kinda sexy brightens the day. If leggings drive male workers to a frenzy of inappropriate thoughts and conversations, the problem is not the leggings.

In the midst of a pleasant afternoon in my recliner at home, I stepped out of my room to pee, which involves crossing the kitchen to reach the bathroom.

When I opened my bedroom door to begin this journey, my flatmate Dean was standing in the kitchen. He wasn't cooking or eating, simply standing, which is weird but so's he. Sometimes he stands around like a mannequin.

He was wearing his Seahawks jersey. That's the local football team, he's a season ticket holder, and he wears the shirt every time he goes to a game, which I know because we've several times had the conversation we were about to have.

"There's a Seahawks game tonight," he said to me as I navigated toward the john, "and I'm a season-ticket holder so I'm going."

"That's nice," I said with a smile. He's a little off in the head and always always always wants to talk to anyone who'll listen, but he usually gets a reply and sometimes a smile from me. I try not to be a bastard.

After closing the door I stood and peed, which takes longer than when I was young, leaving time to think, and mostly what I thought was, Jeez, that guy. Dean loves to talk and wants us to be pals, but all I wanted was to finish peeing and return to the glorious solitude of my room. 

When I flushed and came out of the john, he was still standing there. "They're playing the Vikings," he said, "and it's going to be a great game..." and there was more, of course.

I smiled again and said, "Have a good time," went back into my room and closed the door.

Tomorrow, Dean will tell me all about the game.


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