Want to see my underwear?
Well, sorry - this isn't that kind of website. But if you had been around downtown Columbus, Ohio the other day, you could have caught a peek, because thanks to a wardrobe malfunction, I walked around for several hours with my zipper down.
I wondered why I felt a draft.
I had popped a button on my pants. Thanksgiving FAIL.
But I wired them shut with a paperclip. MacGyver WIN!
Genius in the face of adversity? Or idiocy in the face of obesity? You decide.
Yes I did, I poked the sharp paperclip through the zipper and cloth, towards the soft skin of my bulging belly. I gave it my best MacGyver. But after 15 minutes of wrangling, twisting and cussing, I still saw sensible white cotton poking through the zipper.
There are times when I thank God I wear panties. This was one of those times.
While sitting there and kind of enjoying the cool breeze through the barn door, I thought about a lot of things. First off, the candied sweet potatoes that surely led to the demise of my pants.
Used to be I had two, sometimes three full plates of food on Turkey Day, one for lunch, one for dinner and one for fourth meal. Also used to be I could eat two, sometimes three large bowls of sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving, and still successfully wear pants the following week.
This year, I was good. One plate of food. All day.
That's because, in recent months, I have blown up like a poisoned dog. My metabolism has taken a plunging nose dive since late summer, and I have no idea why, and it's really ticking me off. I exercise five days a week. I lift weights.
I mean, I RUN. Down the STREET. With NO ONE chasing me.
So there's really no excuse for my pants to turn on me in this manner, and the great tragedy is, these are my favorite pair, because they are made of what? Velvet. Mmmm . . . velvet.
It's just like George Costanza, a.k.a. Art Vandelay, a.k.a. Lord of the Idiots always says: "I'd drape myself in velvet if it was socially acceptable."
I reminisced about all the good times in my velvet pants. Been together for years. Bought them at the Victoria's Secret warehouse sale. Wore them to visit New York in 2002, three months pregnant with my son, went sightseeing all around the city and . . .
. . .Wait. A. Minute. Wait a god-dang minute.
These pants fit me . . .
. . . fit me when I was pregnant?
What the . . . W-F*CKING-TF is wrong here?
You mean to tell me I exercise like a bobbing idiot, eat toddler portions, I'm not at the present time pregnant (thank you, God) and my pants are so tight they popped a button?
FML.
I kept sitting there at work, pondering . . . wondering . . . why. You have a lot of time to think when your fly is open and you can't leave your cubicle.
And then finally, finally, finally it came to me. Clearly there is one and only one reason for this.
They shrunk.
In fact, all my clothes have shrunk. I knew that new dryer was too hot.
Well, after all that very important, deep and meaningful problem-solving, you're probably wondering:
Do I still feel fat?
Yes.
Do I feel middle-aged?
Yes.
Did I take a picture of my blown-out pants?
Yes.
Can you PLEASE see my underwear?
No way, you perv.
But you can see my MacGyver.
(This post originally appeared on Dawn's blog, http://lightenupweber.blogspot.com/)