By Dabney Frake
I have a pair of beloved sweatpants that has a hole in them. I would still continue wear them — in spite of said hole — IF I could find them, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my partner boxed them up and toted them off to Goodwill. She is curiously mum on the subject, feigning perfect innocence in the face of my pointed questioning and unblinking stares, but it’s been months since I saw them last. I am quickly losing all hope of ever seeing, let alone wearing, them again.
