There's a guy at my gym who works out in jeans.

They're not baggy jeans, either, jeans that would give him enough room to do squats or jog on the treadmill with ease. They're the regular, no-stretch, no-fun, no-frills jeans. They're the kind you'd wear to the hardware store to pick up a new garden hose.

The man's in his late 50s or early 60s, not old enough to have given up and not so young that he's clueless. I've found myself thinking the jeans can't be the most effective form of sportswear, and if he sweats at all, they probably weigh a metric ton by the time he's done with the elliptical.

It wasn't just a one-time mistake, where he left the house in the wrong clothes and didn't have time to go back and change. And he's no John Cena, but he's not dogging it, either. He's doing actual, honest-to-goodness weight training in denim.

Now, I don't work out in a fancy gym, but still. Jeans.

The man apparently cares enough to get a workout in but doesn't care so much that he'll go out and purchase clothes specifically designed for exercise. Whatever he's wearing will do. He's getting it done. He's good enough.

It occurred to me the other day that I, basically, am the parenting version of Jeans at the Gym Guy.

I was sitting in curriculum night at my kids' school as that thought crossed my mind, listening to one of their teachers explain where parents could access optional homework should they want to quiz their kids on spelling during Thanksgiving break.

"Ha!" I said, turning around to share my glee with the other parents.

A couple of them were writing down the name of the extra homework website.

The teacher had just gotten done talking about the holiday class parties — "Only three, but I promise I'll find you extra opportunities to volunteer," she said, the note of apology in her voice clearly communicating previous experience with parents willing to slap-fight each other for the honor of helping second-graders cut heart shapes out of pink construction paper for the Valentine's Day celebration.

I, on the other hand, am already dreading the room parent emails asking for three more parents to chaperone the trip to the history museum, where the children will learn about important historical figures like the man who was village president in the 1950s when they bought the town hall building from a canning factory owner.

Look, kids, there's a plaque!

Don't get me wrong, I'll be there with bells on for the school Halloween parade, taking pictures and shivering in the rain as the kids stumble past in Minecraft Endermen masks that make them trip over every little sidewalk crack.

But there's only so much a non-perfect parent can do.

When my younger son was in kindergarten, I sat in the same curriculum night and listened as the teacher described, in excruciating detail, when and how the kids would go to the cafeteria and eat lunch every day.

Not much more to add, I thought, naively.

A nervous-seeming man raised his hand with a question.

"I'm wondering," he said, without a trace of irony in his voice, "how is the transaction effectuated?"

I mostly understood the words he used, but the sentiment was alien.

For I was, and remain, convinced that my child could manage to secure himself something edible during lunch, and that any struggles he encountered with the process would not be so great as to require from me advanced warning that he might be asked his name and grade level before the cafeteria workers would give him a slice of pizza.

I don't mean to criticize, though. After all, Effectuated Lunch Dad is doing a decent job as a parent, too.

He wasn't Jeans at the Gym Guy, but he certainly was at the gym of childrearing — probably wearing weightlifting gloves and carrying a gallon jug of an expensive electrolyte beverage that provides optimum hydration — getting his reps in and exercising enough to stay healthy.

We took different routes as parents, but the end result for both of us is the same. We're both at curriculum night. We both care. We're doing the work, getting the benefits.

One of us may be wearing jeans and the other is sporting $200 yoga pants, but at the end of the day, we're both good enough.

That's good enough for me, and I suspect it's good enough for the kids, too.

I guess it has to be, because there's no way I'm drilling them on spelling during Thanksgiving break. I'll be at the gym.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: Victor Freitas at Unsplash