Inside My Fat Pants

I’m wearing my fat pants. The pants I bought when I was at my plumpest. It’s made of semi-stretchable denim—if there’s such a thing—and the constant washing and ironing made it permanently stretched. Thus, my fat pants is presently bigger than when I first slipped inside it.

One time, my fat pants became too big for me. Holding it in place with a belt turned out to be aesthetically unpleasant. The waist area bunched, making my pants look like it were a drawstring pair of denims. Yuck!

My fat pants got shelved for a while. Ultimately, the integrity of its color and material were spared from the constant washing and ironing. It doesn’t look as old as it really is.

But lately, I’ve been having breathing problems with my “good” pants. Hence the need for my fat pants to come out and work its ass off again.

My fat pants will stay in circulation for as long as I am as fat as my fat pants. Meanwhile my good pants will go on vacation.

It’s my limitation, you see. I can’t get any fatter than my fat pants, otherwise my excess weight may seriously start challenging my health—something anyone, including myself would hate to happen.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that my fat pants, as well as my good pants, will forever be fat. Because, really, I’m not exactly one of those women who were designed with slender pelvis. I get that. I can’t really aspire becoming supermodel-thin. That’ll be called delusion.

I just wish I could breathe.

At least while inside my fat pants.