.SOMETIMES RAW.

Lack of communication.

They are facing opposite directions and neither of them feels like rolling over.

They could barely get into, and now can’t get out of, their pants.

They have been inhabiting the same physical space for many years and any sense of mystery or spontaneity has been sucked out of the room by their building’s recently improved air-filtration system.

They have yet to return to a consistent shower-every-day schedule.

The new season of Ozark /The Great British Bake Off /The Real Housewives of Literally Anywhere requires their immediate attention.

They didn’t realize the fetishes they were willing to entertain during the honeymoon phase would be lifelong commitments.

They are listing all the ways in which “sex is great, but have you tried…(reading a book instead)”

They already hit their move goal for the day.

It’s not date night.

They are drunk. Or one of them.

It’s date night, but wouldn’t it be more exciting if their sex didn’t feel so prescriptive?

They ordered and ate three pizzas before passing out on each other while watching a true-crime documentary.

It’s raining.

It’s sunny.

Masturbation is more efficient.

They are waiting for more advanced sex robots.

They injured themselves opening a bottle of wine and a can of olives.

They are binge-watching The Watcher and compared to the sexual energy of that couple, their level of attraction seems inadequate.

They are never not tired.

They think they have COVID.

Fuck, they most definitely have COVID.

Their pandemic puppy insists on watching and it’s freaking them out.

Their ongoing conversation about the irreversible destruction of the environment is terrible foreplay.

The constant threat of nuclear warfare is terrible foreplay.

Thinking about the next election is terrible foreplay.

Their fear of accidentally bringing a (another) child into this godforsaken world is greater than their faith in modern methods of contraception.

This weighted anxiety blanket is preventing them from climbing on top of each other.

Their are talking about why they are not having sex with their sex therapist.

They say, “We are definitely going to have sex tomorrow.”

Or other pets than dogs disrupt their sex life. Aka, weird excuses.

Miniature Pony

A miniature pony is the true neutral of sexual disruption. It is out in the yard, minding its business. It wants no part in your relations and, frankly, is a little affronted that you would even ask.

Hamster

Minor dysfunction may occur. Although hamsters generally keep to themselves, the sound of the hamster toiling away on its tiny treadmill can certainly kill the mood.

Parrot

It depends on the parrot. Some may vocalize their encouragement, but most do not. There once was a parrot who never spoke, only sneezed. It turned out there was no health concern; it was merely repeating the last vocal emissions of its previous owner, who had died of a sneezing fit many years before. This was known as the mystery of the sneezing parrot, and it cast all thoughts of lovemaking asunder.

Ferret

It’s not that ferrets do anything to deter copulation; it’s more that there is an actual ferret owner involved.

Cat

Cats came here to do two things: drink some beer and block some cock. And it looks like they’re all out of beer. But seriously, cats are passionate about nipping coitus in the bud. Scientists agree this is why they developed such a stealthy approach, so that a blast of tuna breath and those kneading little paws come out of nowhere, right at the worst moment.

Goldfish

Goldfish are a death sentence for sexual relations. Their glassy eyes follow you around, seeing what they see. Reflecting their uncanny visions and memories: childhood dreams mangled in the fun-house mirror of your disillusionment. If you can enjoy intimacy while a dead-eyed demon floats silently in the room, then your powers are mighty, and we salute you.

Farewell and good luck out there, lovers!

I practice Yoga for a long time and I love it. I love how it makes me feel, how flexible I am and how I can push my body to different levels. I also own three pairs of Yoga pants. Nothing fancy, nothing rainbowy or super bright colours. And I wear those when I attend a Yoga or Pilates class. I also own a couple of leggings. I do not wear those when I attend a Yoga or Pilates class. Why?

Simply because dear People who think leggings are pants: They are not pants. If they were, we would call them pants. But I want you to know this statement is coming from someone who owns about five pairs of leggings. I am not a hater of leggings. I wear them with skirts and dresses or underpants but, and this is crucial, never as pants. Why is that? Because leggings are not pants.

Tunics provide the one fashionable exception to my “leggings are not pants rule”. A tunic by definition is not quite a skirt, but longer than the average shirt. In fact, leggings and tunics are the perfect match, because the long hem on tunics bunches up over jeans with pockets and the fabric of corduroys creates friction as you walk that reduces the efficiency of movement. So a not-quite-dress tunic worn with definitely-not-pants leggings takes two questionable pieces of clothing and makes them exceptional. And this comes from me not having a clue about fashion.

To explore how other people feel about leggings I did an unscientific survey of my friends. The swift and decisive reaction was “Leggings are NEVER pants.” But this initial response modulated as the conversation evolved. Qualifiers were added when I pushed a little and asked, “yes, but why?” In the end, the poll was split precisely down the middle, half in favour of leggings in lieu of pants and half solidly in the never-as-pants category. Though at this point I started to think of it as more of a leggings and pants continuum.

Why do we love leggings so much? Even those who never wear them alone, still wear them. Leggings cling to us like a hug. They keep us warm and hold our curves without passing judgment on the second piece of cake. They are the Oprah Winfrey of our wardrobes telling us that anything is possible. They empower our movement by making a wide range of it accessible.

Leggings are a celebration of comfort culture. The culture that says, “I want to be comfortable above all else.” Sweatpants, yoga pants, leggings, jeggings, and flannel jammie pants all fall into this category of comfort fashion. All these articles of clothing have a place in our closets. Someday, I will tell you of my love for flannel pyjama pants, but they also fall into the not pants category beside leggings.

The very reasons leggings are wonderful — their comfort, casualness and stretch — are the very reasons why they shouldn’t be worn in public. Wearing them in public is an intimate act. They are too comfortable, and too stretchy. You’ve invited me into your bedroom and insisted on showing me all the hidden parts of yourself by wearing leggings. I’ve never been that good at intimacy with strangers.

Articles of clothing that fall into the not pants category, when worn at home or on the way to and from the gym, are perfectly acceptable. They don’t fall into the category of fashion so much as fulfil a practical role as the thing keeping you from being naked. You can’t wear jeans to the gym, or rather you can, but it gets weird and sweaty and you shouldn’t. Leggings allow for a range of movement that will keep you safe as you work out and provide mild compression to help muscles work with maximum efficiency. But while you need these qualities at certain, specific times, you don’t need a wide range of movement while walking the aisles of a grocery store or a restaurant.

A few men chimed in when I asked if leggings are pants, claiming they had no stake in the argument because they had never worn leggings before and why do we wear clothes at all? Indeed, we make our initial assessment of people based on their clothes, and plenty of value statements are being made about leggings even within the pages of this letter. What if men wore leggings in public as often as women did? Imagine it, the butter-soft fabric clinging to their junk, their T-shirts not quite covering their butts. Would the argument about leggings as pants change? Or are skinny jeans just leggings for men and if so, are skinny jeans pants?

When I queried my friends, “leggings as pants or leggings are never pants?” one said, “I like how they feel and I like how I look in them, so fuck everyone else.” Indeed. This eloquently argues that leggings are not pants, but who said we have to wear pants anyway?

A solid leggings-as-pants friend qualified her position that because she didn’t have a rocking butt, she needed to keep it covered. “But who says you don’t have a rocking butt or that you shouldn’t let your butt shine even if it isn’t rockin’?” I asked. “Touché.” She replied.

We need to be championing body positivity and fierceness in our fellow women. The movement could start with leggings. Women across the world will shout, “I will wear leggings as pants and damn the patriarchy.” It takes the qualifiers many people give to leggings as pants — only if they aren’t see-through, only if they are thick, quality fabric, only with long tops — and throws them out the window along with actual pants. These bold women are shouting, “We will wear any damn thing we please and call them pants.”

So, wear your leggings as pants, or don’t. Wear pantyhose and call them leggings, or don’t (actually, please don’t). If you can, say, look and feel like an Amazonian warrior goddess when you wear them, then I’m not going to stop you if you keep all this in mind.

These are some things my leggings whisper to me:

1. You’ve earned that second doughnut.

2. Your Fitbit will never understand you like I do.

3. No one’s noticed you’ve worn us every day for the last three weeks.

4. You haven’t gained two kilos this winter! Elastic waistbands are notoriously trustworthy.

5. We’re meant to double as pyjamas.

6. Sure, you can wear us to a wedding, you just need a blowout and the right accessories.

Step 1: Open the box and locate the wax strips, instruction booklet, and post-wax soothing wipes with essential oils.

Step 2: Open your pantry and locate your strongest bottle of hard liquor, shot glass, and a half-empty box of chocolate.

Step 3: Take off everything below the waist and sit on the cold bathroom floor. Notice that you need to Swiffer around the toilet. Put your underwear back on and clean the entire bathroom.

Step 4: Take your underwear off again and throw back a shot. Nibble on chocolate.

Step 5: Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm. No microwave required!

Step 6: Decide that you should have some music playing to calm your nerves. Spend twenty minutes curating the perfect playlist.

Step 7: Take another shot. Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm them. No microwave required!

Step 8: Skip every song after four seconds—yeesh, what were you thinking? You can’t wax to Rammstein. Give up and tell Spotify to play “Chill Lounge.”

Step 9: Oh, damn, Edith Piaf is on this playlist? You forgot about her. Spend forty-five minutes scrolling Edith Piaf’s Instagram while eating the remaining chocolate.

Step 10: Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm them. No microwave required.

Step 11: Take another shot, look in the mirror, and slap your face—hard. Flashback to fifth-grade when John said you had “chinese eyes”. Imagine him showing up on your vacation to Mexico and making snide remarks about your bikini line. Show that asshole you can handle this wax.

Step 12: Berate yourself for unfairly calling John an asshole just because he pierced his nose with a safety pin in the bathroom in eighth-grade. You’re both adults now. Perhaps he grew up to be a successful inspector of a company and regrets being a bully. Maybe.

Step 13: Spend forty-five minutes scrolling John’s Instagram, which is mostly “get vaccinated memes” and pictures of his survival equipment.

Step 14: Take another shot. Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm them. No microwave required!

Step 15: Press strip firmly to skin along the bikini line, smoothing it down with the grain of your hair.

Step 16: Feel despair and regret.

Step 17: Think about how you’re only doing this because this is going to hurt like hell.

Step 18: Plod out to the refrigerator, pantless, with the wax strip still stuck to you, and drink half a bottle of Chardonnay directly from the bottle.

Step 19: Fantasize about moving to France. Picture yourself sunning on a rooftop overlooking the Eiffel Tower, your glossy, culturally acceptable body hair being lightly tousled by a Parisian breeze.

Step 20: Prepare to remove the wax strip. Remember to pull your skin taut, and pull the strip off in one quick motion against the grain of your hair.

Step 21: Remind yourself that you come from a line of tough, strong women. If Great-Great-Great-Great Grandma Weiss could raise fourteen kids during some kind of war, you can survive a bikini wax, for fuck’s sake.

Step 22: Close your eyes. Pull off the strip while emitting a guttural howl like a Viking charging into a losing battle.

Step 23: Feel your soul briefly leave your body.

Step 24: Come back into your body and pray for death. Childbirth was a piece of cake compared to this bullshit.

Step 25: Open your eyes and look at the wax strip. Locate the three hairs stuck to it. The rest of your hair should still be firmly embedded in your bikini line.

Step 26: Locate remaining wax strips and post-wax soothing wipes with essential oils and throw them against your bathroom wall.

Step 27: Put on your softest pair of sweatpants and call a taxi to take you to the supermarket.

Step 28: At supermarket, buy one of those swimsuit bottoms with a skirt to cover your bikini line. Say hello to your mom’s friend Gina, who is buying the same one for her water aerobics class.

Step 29: Stuff your new bikini bottom in your bag. Locate the display where you purchased this wax kit for twenty euro. Give the approachable-seeming model on the box the finger. Throw all the boxes to the ground. Jump up and down on them, yelling, “God damn you! God damn you to hell!” until an employee drags you out the door. Awkwardly wave goodbye to Gina.

Step 30: At home, swallow your pride and crawl back to the post-wax soothing wipes with essential oils. Drape the wipe on your red, splotchy, and bleeding bikini line. Put on Rammstein and gulp down the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay.