My damn pants have let themselves go. I'm serious.
For two years I have been unable to fit into anything but
about three pairs of pants and some jeans.
I've been rotating through the same pairs for about twenty-four months
because every time I buy a new pair to add to the mix, they pill up or get all
linty and refuse to de-lint even with a roller.
So I give up.
In the meantime to make myself feel better, I tell my pants
that I don't care about them anymore. I
stop taking them out for fast food, stop drinking soda with them, and give up
keeping chocolate in my top desk drawer at work. I don't take my pants out to trivia where I
eat appetizers and drink draft beer. I
stop inviting my pants out for pizza or even filet mignon. My pants and I are done.
I decide to give a few pairs to the clothing bins down the
street, and the rest, all but my go-to pairs, are folded into piles. Some pants go into the oh if only I could wear them
again pile, which stays on a
wire rack in the spare room. Other pairs
are put into the gosh it would be awesome to wear these again if only my ass weren't so
big pile that is hidden on an upper shelf in a closet. The rest of the pants, the ones that are
going to the bins, I PUT directly into the when the frig did I ever fit into these damn
things garbage bags.
Recently I went out and bought a bunch of dresses that
accentuate my waist and shirts that hang below the belt line, camouflaging what
age and Mother Nature consider the Lower Belly Laugh of Menopause. Sometimes I take my dresses out with me, but
mostly I decide if my pants can't come out to eat, then I'll stop going. Maybe they plan to go out without me, I don't
know, but I stay in and start eating stuff that isn't deep-fried or full of
carbonation and sugar. My dresses don't
care. They seem to love me no matter
what and never gave me a lick of trouble trying to get the zipper over my
rearend because most of the zippers don't even go down that far. Dress zippers are smart like that. So
there! Take that, pants!
The other day, though, I notice my jeans are
extra-baggy. The next morning when I get
up for work, I spontaneously reach for brown pants from the oh if
only I could wear them again pile.
And … they … fit. They need a
quick ironing after two years of collecting dust and being all folded and
packed away on the wire bin, but I can actually wear them. I try it again this morning, and … the gray
pair of pants fits, as well.
Sonofagun.
I am shocked and somewhat disheartened. My stupid pants must have gotten larger, more
stretched out. They've found a way to
work into the rotation again. The damn
things must be inhaling French fries and hamburgers and sodas and ice cream and
cookies and chocolate and beer and all the things I've had to give up all
because of them and their skinnier ways.
My pants have betrayed me and tricked me back into them
again. My damn pants have been going out
without me! My stupid pants have let
themselves go!
Not any longer, pants!
Here's fair warning: You'd better watch yourselves. First of all, I've no intention of joining
you for fast food and junk ever again.
Secondly, I might have to throw you over for the gosh it would be awesome to wear
these again if only my ass weren't so big pile of pants. But if I find out those pants have been
letting themselves go, too, I'm totally screwed. After all, I've already tossed out the when
the frig did I ever fit into these damn things pants.
If that happens and I need to go shopping, you other pants
are out of here!
I'm just saying.
