These are my pants. They are my favorite pants. They are my only pants… that fit. These are my pants.
When you’re 5 feet, 2 inches tall and you pack on a couple dozen therapeutic pounds, your pants get relegated, one “nope, too tight” pair at a time, to the back corner of the closet. It keeps you from feeling suicidal every single day when you go there to get dressed and find many pairs of pants that you can’t put on. I move them out so I can choose from a stack of pants that will say yes to me when called upon. It turns out that once the migration begins, if you don’t make any changes to your lifestyle, you’ll soon be down to one pair of pants. Who knew?
I, unlike many of my weight-volatile friends, only keep clothing in one size… the size that fits me. I refuse keep a “range” of sizes because I’ve been paying enough attention to notice that humans tend to go just about as far as you let them. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about spending money, flirting, talking back, speeding, or calories. It’s our nature to stop pushing right about the time that we can’t get away with it anymore. I guess what I’m saying is, I like boundaries.
As my size 12 pants and beloved collection of blue jeans made their way to the back of my closet last year, I purchased two pairs of fabulous size 14 jeans at the consignment store down the street. I hated expanding to a two size girl, but had no other choice if I was to leave the house in anything but yoga pants until something… uh, shifted in relationship with food. Yesterday, when I was putting on one of my two pair of jeans, the zipper broke. I just stood there, staring at those broken pants, contemplating what life with one pair of pants feels like. It is… humbling, as one might imagine.