Week 30: 1955 Chevrolet Nomad

Chevy called this car, back in the day, "The Hot One." Little did the Nomad realize how one day a station wagon would become a quintessential symbol of uncool until mercifully rescued by the minivan in late 80s and 90s. 

Thanks, Minivan - Signed, Station Wagon. XXXOO.

But I suppose that is the nature of hip.

I could easily segue into a discussion of aging, or of being in my 20s in the 1980s, or how we see ourselves vs. how our kids see us, but that seems too easy. No, instead, I want to talk about...

sweat pants.

Man, I hate sweat pants. Some say they're comfortable, but those things have never been hip, not even during the grunge days that were even able to make flannel shirts hip. Sweat pants. They even sound disgusting. Sweat pants.

That is about as appealing as Stink Shirt.

Maybe you like sweat pants, and that is fine. Many people do. I wear them at the gym, but I treat them like a pair of safety goggles or a cummerbund* -- I'm wearing them for an extremely limited set of occasions.

Which is why my kids' love of sweat pants kills me.

Four year old Racer A would wear sweat pants every day. He is old enough to grab clothes out of his drawer for himself to get dressed, and he always grabs sweat pants.

Even if I say, "Don't grab sweat pants."

To him, that only means, don't grab the red sweat pants. Grab the blue ones.

I don't expect a four year old to have a fashion sense. But seriously, a dress shirt with sweat pants? Geez.

And those red sweat pants.

Where did those things come from? I don't know, but they feel omnipresent.

He can lose one of every pair of socks he owns, every toy, shirt, and one shoe of every pair of shoes eventually end up under his bed, so why don't those awful red sweat pants ever disappear? I'm afraid to get rid of them, for fear they'll show on his dresser like some haunted relic from a horror movie. They truly are awful. Those sweat pants hate me.

And I can't give one logical reason to him why he shouldn't wear them, especially if we're staying in for the day.

Baby G is the same way, except he doesn't have a red pair of sweat pants.

I get him dressed, and I hear, "Nho, nho" when I try to put him in a pair of jeans. Sweat pants, though? A big smile and "Daaaaa!"

I get it. They are soft and comfortable, and I'm probably ridiculous in my contempt for those things, but I can't help it.

I hate sweat pants.

I really hate red sweat pants.

So, I let my kids wear sweat pants at home, and even for casual outings, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Okay. I'm glad I got that off my chest.

I'm wondering now, however, if I shouldn't have went with the aging 80s hipster theme for the blog.

We might still see ourselves as a 1955 Nomad, even though our kids ...

Oh well, There's always next week.

*If you think i spelled it incorrectly, you're wrong. The proper spelling for that weird wrap-around waist thing that primarily shows up at weddings is "cummerbund," not "cumberbund," in the same way that the proper spelling for those disgusting, belt loopless pants that should never ever be worn by adults in public outside of the gym are "sweat pants" not "sweet pants."

Hip, non-sweat pantsy photo of my Hot Wheels Nomad courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Nomad part of the 2010 Hot Wheels Hot Auction collection.