I did something today that I have never done. Perhaps something that no self-respecting mid-twenty something should do. I wore leggings outside of the house. And not with a dress over them. Not peeking out from under some flirty skirt. Just straight up leggings, like as pants.

It was the culmination of a deteriorating week. With finals just days away, my self-maintenance steadily declines over the course of ten days until all I eat is snack food and I can’t be torn out of cotton. Hair is pulled back in pony tails and then itched loose only moments before bed. Runs are sacrificed for study time and hours of sleep are preciously counted until slowly what I wear outside of the bed doesn’t look so different from what I wear in it. The lines blur and today the leggings prevailed.

As if that wasn’t reason enough, I woke up for the third morning of torrential rain. It was flooding from the sky and the prospect of another day spent shivering in sticky wet jeans in drafty auditoriums was just too much to bear. So I found my quickest drying pair of leg coverings – I cannot call them pants – and slipped into my nearly see-through-thin leggings, hiked up the legs so they appeared even in length (there is actually a four-inch discrepancy which is what you get when you spend $6 on leg coverings), and hopped into my puddle boots.

Glancing in the mirror as I ran out the door only slowed me enough to stretch my tank-top over my hips and pull my sweater further over my tush. I should have known there and then that I lacked the mental acuity to handle the day. Like neon lights flashing by way of two large spandex covered thighs, I should have just stayed home. But no, I left the house in my leggings and trudged through another wet day. I put myself through the academic ringer only to be spit out the other end, worse for the wear, left to crawl home and kick off my boots and collapse into an exhausted mess. Of spandex.