Everyone has a pair of fat pants. EVERYONE.

So, friends of mine may or may not have heard about the Easter Cream Egg incident and what it led to. Those of you who don’t know, well, …umm…I really enjoy them and well, I put on over 10 pounds during the Easter season while they were available. Seriously, it’s a good thing I’m not addicted to nicotine or heroine because I would be a madwoman. (ask my husband, and he’ll tell you I WAS a madwoman when the cream egg stash would run out. He feared me.)

Well, that aside, here is the problem. I can’t get into any of my jeans. You remember how nothing came between Brooke Shields and her Calvins back in 1980? Well, I had a pair like that. My most favorite pair is a cute faded ripped up boy cut style that I purchased last spring and do you think I can get them on? NO. It’s like stuffing a hippo into a doghouse. Ask my friend Rehannon. She’s seen me try and nearly peed laughing.

I dread the jean shopping. The tiny dressing prisons with the falsified skinny mirrors and the hyper Lindsay Lohanish salesgirl gushing about how they look SOOO fabulous on me.
I fear for those poor salesgirls as I imagine myself tearing out of the dressing room with 6 pairs of jeans draped around my body yelling “RARRRRR” and going crosseyed with a psycho grin on my face.

I don’t want jeans with some silly butterfly or flower decal draped over one side of them as I do not have a pair of roller skates and a comb for the back pocket to go with them.
I also don’t want any super-low rise rapper girlz jeans because I can now pull off the muffin top spillage like nobody’s business.
And please don’t tell me to buy some high-waisted pleated pantalons because although I DO want to hide my jiggle baby belly (yes I hang on to it for sentimental reasons!!), I just can’t go there yet. I may be 32 but please, my maturity level is only hovering around 23 or 24.

So for now, I’m hoping to eat only celery and lettuce for the next few weeks in hopes to get back into the jeans I love more than my cat. If you see me out and about, I’ll probably be wearing my oversized muddy gardening pants, since they are the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like a kidney is about to slip out.
My sincerest apologies.
(On the upside, I think I have boobs now!)