Do you ever have a day when all day you dream of getting home from work if for no other reason than unbuttoning your pants? Because I do. I’ve been in these pants for 13 hours now and I’m surprised I haven’t lapsed into cardiac arrest. These pants are t-ight! No, they’re not some teeny tiny size that doesn’t fit me. This is my size. Well, I should say, this was my size.
I just told my husband this morning that no matter what, I’m not changing pant([s] confused here…) sizes. I won’t do it. I will run for an hour each night on the treadmill, and maybe-if it gets to that point-buy a food scale (yeah right), but I won’t trade in my extensive (and expensive) pants collection ever. It is my pride and joy. I will wriggle and jump and safety pin for years before I give in. Maybe decades.
I know I shouldn’t be surprised it’s come to this. Hell, just yesterday I blogged about my love of foods chock full of sugar and carbs. But it has. I’m about to pull out the old elastic-band maternity pants just to get me through this rough patch and to spare me from buying the next size up. The next size up is a danger zone. The next size up is a few more hundred dollars worth of viscose.
I understand the girl I have mocked – you know her: muffin top. I understand her completely – her pants are from Banana Republic and she’s too prideful to buy a size up and her husband’s too frugal to let her. Yikes. It’s a rough world out here. Don’t join me.