“I’ll never be one of those girls,” I once thought while slipping my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. Yoga pants are for sleeping, not to be worn past the mailbox, I felt.  Only lazy people wear them to class. I didn’t even do yoga, for goodness sake.

I was wrong in those denim-clad moments. Really, really wrong.

It was not something I wanted to do, the first time I wore yoga pants. It was out of necessity. I had run out of clean jeans (and out of only slightly dirty jeans, too) but it was time for class. A shortsightedness broke me of my not-even-once philosophy.   My roommate threw a pair of her stretchy American Eagle yoga pants across the room and I was out the door with three minutes to spare.

It was about half way down Chancellor’s Walk when I realized that I had it all wrong. Perhaps about everything I’d ever known. Yoga pants were heavenly.

I knew I shouldn’t like them. I knew they didn’t count as real pants and that I was slowly becoming a part of a generation that feels undergarments were acceptable outer-garments and that Justin Beiber is a viable source of entertainment. Next thing I knew, I’d be updating twitter about my split ends and celebrating Kim Kardashian’s divorce.

Okay, well, not really. But I was shocked at how comfortable the pants really were.

I went immediately after class to buy myself a pair. (Wal-Mart- $9.98)

I convinced myself the whole way home that what I had done was okay, similar to my thought process after eating cake instead of working out.

What makes one fabric inherently better than the other, I had to ask myself. Both are opaque, form-fitting pieces of clothing. Why did something comfy feel sinful? That’s the way the world is working now, putting utilitarian purposes over tradition, style and even class.

It wasn’t like I had bought Crocs or anything. They were just another pair of pants that happened to take less time to put on. Besides, boys love yoga pants.

Who was I to argue with a win-win situation?

I consulted The Seahawk fashion reporter, Tabitha Shiflett, to console me. 

“If worn with tennis shoes, they’re okay- so it looks like you’re about to go work out. Or around your house,” Shiflett said.

Still, there was a time when women wore corsets under everything; when nothing was allowed to jiggle and the idea of being in public with wet hair was abhorrent. There was a beauty in that idea, a quiet pride in keeping face and being presentable publicly.

I kept the new yoga pants in the back of my closet.

For three days.

All inner conflict aside, they are just unbelievably nice to wear. Besides, I don’t live in the fifties. I’m a young, independent woman earning a degree. Sometimes I only have a second to get to class.

“Everyone is doing it,” said a friend of mine, who wishes to remain anonymous. “Stop worrying so much.”

I have since come up with two conditions for myself to handle the guilt. First, if I have time for makeup, I have time for jeans. Second, if I am certain that I will not go to the gym that day, I have to wear jeans (the second is more for motivation than logic).

Today I own four pairs of yoga pants and have, for the most part, conquered any residing guilt. If I am going to be tacky, at least I will be trendy, modern, and extremely comfortable while doing it.