teddybear Archives – Lisa Scottoline

By Lisa Scottoline

I have great news.

Elastic waistbands have gone public!

Let me explain:

The holidays are upon us, which means I have to go to the mall.

Which is outside.

By that I mean, I work at home, so I’m in sweats and fleece 24/7.

My daughter calls it my teddybear clothes.

Because she loves me.

But really, I’m a slob.

And working from home has only encouraged my slobbiness.

I have an entire wardrobe of sweatpants.

I even have dress sweatpants, in cashmere.

They look like 1,000,000 bucks, which is about what they cost.

Worth every penny.

Anyway, since I live in sweatpants, I look at jeans as the enemy.

Because they have a waistband.

And a button.

And a zipper.

Jeans are like a denim chastity belt.

Even though believe me, I’m chaste.

Only Mother Teresa is more chaste than I am.

And she’s dead.

I’m only dead below the waist.

But I digress.

Because jeans feel so confining, I’ve dreaded wearing them, which is a problem for going out.

Meanwhile, let’s pause for a moment and think back to the time when women had a pair of nice pants, usually wool and in navy or black.

Mother Mary called them slacks, but you get the idea.

There was no slack in slacks.

They had a real waistband, usually with the button and a zipper, and they had a crease down the middle. I have them at the back of my closet, but I can’t remember the last time I put them on.

Maybe people still wear them, but I don’t.

Remember I warned you about the slobbiness.

If I have to dress up for a signing, I wear black stretch pants with a nice jacket on top. No one knows my waistband is elastic.

Until now.

What’s funny is in the old days, I wore jeans all the time and dreaded putting on a pair of pants.

Now I wear sweats all the time and dread putting on a pair of jeans.

In other words, I’m devolving.

Unfortunately my waistline is evolving.

To return to point, I had to go shopping for presents, so I stuffed myself into jeans and left the house.

I was walking around the mall for five minutes when I realized that no one around me was wearing jeans.

What?

Every single person was wearing sweatpants or a tracksuit or some kind of teddybear clothes.

Drawstrings abounded, swinging back and forth.

Yes, I stared at people’s crotches.

Men and women, but mostly men.

Bottom line I was the only throwback in jeans.

What?

Since when?

This is great news!

I could’ve been a teddybear, no problem.

Meanwhile I had a vise around my waist, like a do-it-yourself hysterectomy.

The only people not wearing some form of sweatpants were women who had gone in the complete opposite direction, wearing yoga pants showing a midriff.

In December.

Now listen, if I had a waist like these women, I’d probably show it off too.

I spotted abs for miles.

But still, even my chubby tummy was cold.

By the way, no one was wearing shoes either.

Everyone was wearing sneakers.

I looked like something out of the 1950s, with my jeans and loafers.

So bottom line, I bring tidings of great joy.

‘Tis the season for sweatpants in public.

Truly Happy Holidays!

By Lisa Scottoline

Well, the weather has turned cold, and I’m back to my old habits.

I’m sleeping in my clothes.

I don’t regard this as a bad habit.

I actually think it’s a good habit.

Hear me out.

It’s fall now so that means I’m in a long sleeve T-shirt, a sweater, and sweatpants.

Francesca calls them my teddybear clothes.

You cannot imagine how happy I am to be a teddybear.

I walk around feeling huggable.

And even hugged.

Who knew clothes could do such good?

At night I’m nice and warm in bed, and the next morning when I wake up, I’m ready for the day.

Obviously, no bras are involved.

I’m not braless, I’m bra-free.

If I have to go out for some reason, whether to walk the dogs or ride a pony, I put on a bra then take it off as soon as I get in.

As we all know, home is where you hang your bra.

You’re probably wondering how often I change my clothes/pajamas.

When I feel shame.

Shame is key to my life.

Or when I take a shower, which is also shame-based.

Mainly three days.

This was a good system until last weekend, because I went to Boston for work and also saw my old friend Sandy, whom I’ve known since tenth grade.

That makes it a 55-year friendship.

Do you have any friends for 55 years?

If you do, you’re very lucky.

Sandy and I don’t see each other as much as we did in French II. She lives in Vermont and I live in Pennsylvania, so we stay in light touch through text and zooms, but when we see each other, we finish each other sentences.

Except Sandy is a psychiatrist so she’s a better listener than I am.

So, you know who gets to finish her sentences.

When I first saw Sandy, she looked terrific in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans with a leopard print, and matching sneakers.

When I told her how cute she looked, she told me something remarkable: “I made this whole outfit, even the sneakers.”

Now, I don’t know what to tell you.

Sandy and I are a lot alike, but 55 years has changed us.

She makes sneakers, and I can’t be bothered to make dinner.

I don’t know how this happened.

It struck me that having a girlfriend is something of a miracle, especially when you’ve had one for a long time.

Even if you don’t see them or talk to them, very often, they are a constant throughline in your life. And if you have lived long enough, you know that there are precious few throughlines in life.

I myself have had two divorces, several different cars, and even more dogs. I’ve changed careers. As an author, I’ve even written different types of novels. My weight has gone up and down. My hair has gone from mousy brown to fictional blonde.

That is the only thing that will never change on me.

My fake hair color.

But a girlfriend like Sandy is a constant, like an operating system on a computer. Like any good support system, she makes things run, but invisibly so. I just know she’s there for me, and I will always be there for her.

We sat down over lunch and talked about our parents, because I knew her wonderful mother and father the way she knew Mother Mary and my father. We talked about our siblings, our children, and our dogs because she is as big a dog lover as I am.

And we walked all over Boston, where I did plenty of shopping and she did none, and she taught me what upcycling is, which means making old clothes into new clothes instead of throwing them away.

I thought that we were upcycling ourselves.

Sandy is my own personal history on two homemade sneakers, and I am hers, in Hokas.

And when I spend time with her, I feel it fulfilling my soul, in a way that being with someone who knows you completely and loved you even when you had braces, glasses, and hair that was still its natural color.

Because that stuff is just superficial, like the clothes we put on and take off.

And we shared a hotel room, in which she slept in actual pajamas while I slept in the same outfit that I had worn that day.

She didn’t say anything.

There’s no judgment in an old friend.

There’s no shame with an old friend.

There’s only love.

And the miles you put on the relationship, no matter what shoes you wear.

Or make.

‘Tis The Season

Mileage

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