During my highschool years, in the 70s, I lived in these sweatpants. They were so comfortable. The closest thing to wearing pajamas in public without actually wearing pajamas. They were also baggy and sloppy and not all that attractive. No one would describe my wardrobe as impeccable.
I exercised in them, wore them around the house, and to hang out with friends. My dad hated my sweatpants and often asked if I was really going out dressed like that.
One day I was heading out for a jog. We lived on a fairly isolated country road with little traffic. As I laced up my runners, my dad asked me if I was going to run with a hole in my pants. The hole was big enough that you could see my underwear.
“No one’s going to see me. I could run down the road naked and not run into anyone!” I retorted,
I was almost finished my run when a car pulled up. It was full of boys.
“Hey, We like the hole in your pants!” they shouted.
I jumped the ditch and tore down a grape row.
What a humiliating moment for a teenage girl. As soon as I got home, I took of the pants and never wore them again. Sometimes father knows best.