why you shouldn't wear sweatpants grocery shopping

In the past few years, I've evolved into somewhat of a non-sweatpants-wearing creature.  Gone are the glorious days of undergrad, when I wore sweatpants pretty much all day, every day -- from 6am crew practice to leaving the library at night.  I now choose to look nice and be presentable a majority of the time, and I threw out my scrubby sweats and replaced them with J. Crew minnie pants. I kept a handful of yoga pants and leggings, and I own exactly one pair of real, bonafide sweatpants, that typically are worn exclusively in the confines of my apartment, or over my soccer shorts to soccer games during the winter.  And once, I wore them to the grocery store.

[Let me make something clear:  I really hate grocery shopping.  And I make a big effort to avoid it-- sometimes I'll even send my roommate with a couple dollar bills and ask him to pick up essentials (diet coke) for me so I can make it by just a few more days.  Getting in my car, turning the engine on, remembering that I haven't put gas in my car for over a month, going to the gas station to gas up, driving the whole 1.8 miles down Main Street to the store, finding a cart, navigating the aisles, price comparisons, waiting in line, driving the car back home... it's just too much for a fragile soul like mine.]

So Once Upon A Time, on a dark and stormy night, I was hungover and tired and desperately needed to grocery shop.  I was wearing the heinous sweatpants, and faced with the horror of another trip to Busch's, I took a risk and jammed my feet into my Uggs, thinking to myself "Celebrities wear their sweats in public all the time." I hopped into my car and after the requisite gas stop, I arrived at the grocery store.  And it's while I'm comparing the prices of Progresso Soups that I see Notre Dame Mark: a Really Really Cute Tall who ran in college, had a good job and a nice condo, and took me on nice dates.  But when he wanted to be my boyfriend, I couldn't commit and I panicked, and stopped answering his calls and blocked him on Facebook in a Very Mature and Sober Moment.

I looked at Notre Dame Mark, who was checking out the canned tomatoes, and almost said hello when I have the sinking realization that a) I am far too embarrassed about the de-friending incident to ever speak to him again and b) I am in the sweatpants.  Thinking he hadn't seen me yet, I fled the aisle and headed for the wine section.  Problem:   He did see me.  And he followed me to the wine to say hi--apparently, my immaturity is charming to some.  I somehow made it through a stiff and awkward conversation, all the while hoping to melt into a puddle on the ground.

Turns out, talking to an "ex" for the first time in months when you are in sweat pants and he is in designer jeans isn't so fun.  It could have been so different if I could have hidden behind a cute outfit, instead of shrinking in shame.  Instead, it was basically the Worst Grocery Shopping Trip Ever. So I have to admit, The Rules are right.  Dress to impress, because you never know when you'll meet someone (even if it isn't The One).  I now vow to wear lipstick at the gym, and I'm considering the nose job.  Next on my list: mastering Rule #2:  Don't Talk to a Man First (and Don't Ask Him to Dance).  Wish me luck--I'm headed to Rick's tonight to practice it!

L