I would venture to say that an offshoot of cold weather is a lowering standard of dress, as we arrive morning after morning succumbed beneath the comforter with no desire to leave. Cracking our eyes open to the alarm clock, we pull on whatever is lying at the head of the bed or on the floor, schlepping out the door with layer upon layers and shuffling to class with our heads down, the icy wind bruising our necks. Pain seizes our bodies and makes helpless shoulders contort, butts clench, jaws stiffen: bodily defense mechanisms to the cold abound, but in vain. The only respite is in finding the nearest door.

On my daily journeys to and from campus, I make plenty of pit stops. The four block trek is much too far to make in one, long stretch; the effort is too great. Departing from a class in Humanities, I stop in the library to check my email yet again, anything to release the tension from my back that has been unnaturally bent for much of the morning. The cold has reached the inner recesses of my flesh, a spot behind my lungs, and as feeling begins to reach my appendages once again, it is the warming of this spot that makes me feel whole. Ah yes, I can breathe again.

Scurrying from the library like a mouse, I am spit through the wind tunnel between the library and Old Main, and head to the Union. Here is my last stop before eventually heading to Dunn Bros. and home, always dreading the Grand-Snelling intersection (where I may have to wait at the crosswalk for eons, jumping up and down, stamping my feet, and frantically turning my mind to some other fact than what it is alerting me—you are in pain). Caught in the stream of other huddled bodies filing into the Union, I hear many eke out comments such as, "Damn, it's so cold!" and, "Did you know that today is supposed to be the coldest $#*% day of the year?!" and, my favorite and the most often used, "God, I hate Minnesota!"

God bless the Union and the powerful heaters that pump barrel-fulls of warm air on my face. I slip upstairs to the gallery of chairs that overlook the cafeteria. I become incredibly entranced in my socio-anthropological study of the interactions in a college dining hall. Behind the monkey-like bars, I take mental notes of people milling around versus those following direct paths, the football table and the cross-country table, first year floor-mate tables, lone seniors with practiced apathy written on their faces, and the unknowns with broccoli and ice cream on the same tray. It's a feast for the eyes. And, in most recent observations, the intensity of my gaze has begun to shift towards a fantastic, newly energized phenomenon: boys in sweatpants.

As my friend Chloe tells me, there's nothing less sexy than the wrong man in the wrong sweatpants. I'm sure we can all picture a man of a certain age, sporting a washed-out green number pulled a little too high. Fortunately for us, the majority of Mac boys have the right ones, and know how to wear them—slightly sagged. In my view, there is nothing more enticing than the carelessly sexy aura of boys who can walk around in public wearing sweatpants. Some, I have noticed, make a very strict habit of always dressing in sweatpants, (sweatpants as statement?) and others, who do the occasional sweatpant turn but mainly stick with loose-fitting jeans (which also have a high mark in my book). What is it, however, that makes those sweatpants and the boys who wear them so darn sexy? Perhaps it's the way I can visualize the softness of the fabric in my hands of the clingy cotton which drapes so flatteringly over the hips and legs. Perhaps it's how easily they can be slid down and off. Surely, I will admit, much of it has to do with the inevitable package-comparisons between members of this trend. I am always more than slightly vexed by those boys who insist on wearing long shirts that cover the "package area" as if they knew how much it tantalizes those of us who sneak peaks even more.

I'm not sure what is driving this trend of boys in sweatpants—perhaps it really is the cold. Sweatpants fit perfectly well over the long johns. Maybe it exists to enlighten the cultural division between the indie-hipster segment of the population and related fashions. Definitely there's some connection to the hip-hop "flava," à la Eminem and Ja Rule in the wearing of sweatpants. Not to mention the connection to the athlete-jock uniform and, not least of all, the fashion selection of an aimless college boy who just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. Whatever it is, I'll keep watching and in the meantime I offer these words of advice to you the Macalester community: In these, the coldest days of the year, try to stay as warm as possible and don't forget to admire the view.