A Story

This is a true story about my pants.

To protect the identity of my pants, I won't be assigning them the true number of their size. It's not that I care if people know the size of pants I wear, this is for the pants' sake. Their poor self-esteem is very fragile currently (they haven't been worn in 2 1/2 years).

So let's say the vast majority of my pants are 1 (ironically, when I transitioned from child to adult size none of the following numbers graced my shelves).

After Jane, I went up not one (known hence forth as 2), not two (now known as 3), but THREE (identified as 4) sizes. My sister told me it would be so. She told me to purchase pants in Every. Single. Size.

I got pants in 4. Mercifully, that was a short stage. I had pants in 3 (thanks to my sister). I never got pants in 2.

A few months ago, my weight loss allowed me to graduate to 2. But I was cheap. I thought, "So 3 is a little big. Who cares?"

As more weight came off, 3 became a little baggier and baggier. Now I am at a point pounds away from 1. And 3 is looking awfully large -- like falling off large.

Will I go buy a 2? Not likely. I'm so close. And too cheap.

I could wear a belt, as suggested by my husband who hates the pants I'm wearing now, but I won't.

Besides, I hear seeing the faint bulge of rolled up pants under the hem of a shirt is super hot right now.