The brown poop scrunchie

There are a few articles of clothing I probably absolutely shouldn't admit to owning and wearing:

1. A pair of perma-knee sweatpants
2. A shapeless, nubby article of clothing affectionately named "snot sweater"
3. A t-shirt with beer-drinking, bikini-clad pigs tubing down a river under the words "River Swine" 
...okay, let's skip a few here for the sake of time...
47. A brown poop scrunchie

Yep, I'll admit it. I own a scrunchie. A scrunchie that is often mistaken for a pile of poop on the carpet, no less. In my defense, this rockin' hair accessory dates back to high school (and before this information pushes you over the fine line between flinching and doubling over in dry heaves, let me add that I do wash it on a somewhat regular basis). I would also like to point out that my scrunchie is used exclusively at night ...unlike my sweatpants... and, therefore, is only seen by my husband and camping friends (and like I care what either of these parties think anyway).

Here is my recent dilemma: I feel as though my brown poop scrunchie may be nearing the end of its stretchy and perfectly-ponytailing night life. My circa-1994-perfectly-coiffed-half-pulled-through-nighttime-ponytail-bun is slipping too early in the night, and I wake up with long strands of hair surreptitiously working their way into my mouth or tickling my ears. Now I am faced with the reality of going out and purchasing a new scrunchie.

Let me point out that in my mind there is a vast difference between admitting to already owning grandma undies and actually going out and physically purchasing them - my (obviously-hypothetical) oversized monstrosities hidden at the bottom right corner (a hypothetical corner, of course) of my underwear drawer could have been graciously bestowed upon me in my Christmas stocking or given as a lame bridal gift.

...but to actually pick out and pay for a new scrunchie? Apparently, 1994 called and wants back the last of its fashion disasters.