Some days you’re the leggings. You’re just phoning it in, knowing that your day is going to involve way more leisure than athletics and she’s really wearing you because she’s too bloated after “Wings and a Pitcher Night” to wear a proper waistband. The pilling of your fabric happening in the inner thigh area is so annoying you almost forget to be upset about the schmear of cream cheese crust that somehow never comes off in the wash. Then some lady writes a letter about your criminally sexy in...