Our Sunday Best

"You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants? 

You're telling the world, 'I give up. I can't compete in normal society. 

I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.'"

                                                                                                             - Jerry Seinfeld

Last Sunday I busted my butt to get my family to the children's Christmas program. Busting my butt includes, but is not limited to, the following: finding the girls' Christmas dresses, finding coordinating tights, hair accessories, and shoes, finding dress clothes that fit the toddler/man-child; finding something that fits me, having the children memorize their lines and songs, buying and wrapping gifts for Sunday school teachers and Program Directors, and making sure my husband is appropriately dressed.

All of these tasks were accomplished without incident until it came time to dress my husband -  who declared he was wearing jeans. An argument ensued. I was handicapped by lack of time and patience so I conceded the fight and off we went - the children and I in our Sunday best, and Justin in his finest pair of Wranglers. 

The program went well. Cute kids, screaming kids, booger-picking kids, bored-looking kids, memorized lines, flubbed lines, paparazzi parents ....Then came time for the adult choir to sing a song that they had learned with the children. 


The adults made their way to the choir loft when I spotted my dad, a 30+ year member of the choir. The infamous words of Clark Griswald then ran through my head:  "Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol? " He was wearing sweatpants. A T-shirt and sweatpants.

I'm pretty sure Jesus didn't mind my Dad's sweats, but I'm quite certain my mother did. As Dad made his way into the choir loft, I could literally feel my mother's rage from across the church. 

What in the world was going on? Was he sleep-walking? Was he sick? Did he know where he was? Had he become senile since I saw him earlier this morning? Had God appeared to him and told him to wear sweatpants to the children's Christmas program? Was he making a political statement?

Well no to all of the above, but apparently Dad had came from his bowling league (where I guess he wears sweat pants?) directly to the church. And he must have had some nachos, because I'm pretty sure I could see some cheese dried on his thigh. 

I don't think Dad cared one bit about his sweats - he sang with gusto. I think he was pretty pumped up about the birth of the Christ child, or maybe his bowling team won? Or perhaps he was just happy that he had had some nacho cheese? 

He later explained that he thought the choir would wearing choir robes, and he'd be able to slip in and out of the program without showcasing his bowling wardrobe.

As we left the church, Justin's grin was so big that I knew that he was not smiling about the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, but for the redemption that had been brought to him by my father and his nacho-cheese stained sweatpants. His Wranglers had never looked better.