Most evenings see me in a pair of yoga pants I bought when I was pregnant because I’ve got this thing about not wanting to “waste” nice clothes on hanging out at home (I blame my half-Scottish heritage for this mindset). Don’t go imagining a stylish “lounging at home in my activewear” getup though; these pants were from the $5 rack at Kmart, and are so old their cost-per-wear sits at about 0.0004 cents. Due to their clingy nature, they made my pregnant ass look like two baskets of rutting hamsters, but goddamit I love a bargain so wore them anyway. Also, nothing else fit. I was wearing these pants as I tucked Amy into bed last night, so was taken aback when she said, “Are you going out for dinner after I’ve gone to sleep? Those pants look fab-lee-iss”. Ah, but Amy is four, and in Four Year Old World a $5 pair of yoga pants can be considered totally ok to wear to a restaurant (stick that in your lemon, Lulu). It got …