Are You Sure Those Are Your Pants?

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I’ve always heard stories about people going to work and then realizing that A. they aren’t wearing their own pants or B. that they aren’t wearing any pants at all. Okay, maybe B. is a drastic exaggeration, but it falls in line with my assumptions that these people were straight up mad. How the hell could you not be wearing your own pants? Who are you? Seriously. Get help.

Welp … the saying is true, kids. Thoust shall not call the kettle black … or the pot black … wait. Oh shush, you know what I’m saying. Let’s bring it back to a time last week when I got up in the morning, took my black skinny jeans off the hanger and thought I had gained 100 pounds over night.

Now, anytime a gal puts on skinny jeans (or guy, I won’t discriminate if you get down with ball huggers), there is a little dance involved whilst putting them on, especially if you just washed them. You pull them up halfway, do a little squat and shimmy, pull them up a little more, shimmy shimmy shake, then bring it on home and pull them all the way up with three mid-air jumps, and a bit more shimmying (this time it’s just for funsies). This is the life of a skinny jean wearer, am I right?

Well on this particular morning, I slipped on my black skinnies, and by the time I got to the second shimmy shimmy shake, I realized they weren’t fitting right. Now I base my weight on how my clothing fits. If it isn’t tight, it’s right, if it is, well, you need to lose weight … for SHIZ (see what I did there? Ehhh?!).

All I could think was, “did it happen finally?! Have all those years of eating carbs and potato products finally caught up with me!?” Literally buttoning these suckers was the saddest moment of my life. Like how could I have let this happen?! They buttoned, so that was good and all, but were they comfortable? Umm negative. I think I still have a button imprint under my belly button a week later. But typical me, I was running late, so I threw on an oversized shirt so no one could see my protruding muffin top, and went on with my way thinking about how obese I had become overnight.

The entire day I kept fidgeting in them, trying to pull them up in an effort to make them more comfortable and tolerable, but alas there was no rescuing my suffocating stomach. The worse part was I had to return something at Zara and the last thing I wanted to do was enter in to one of my favorite stores in my sad condition. But I went anyways, and since they were having a mega blowout sale I HAD to try stuff on, of course. Duh.

After acquiring way too many pieces of clothing to try on, I entered the Zara fitting room, questioning why I was subjecting myself to this violent form of torture. My damn pants didn’t fit me anymore. I had no right to enter into any room unless it was a Jenny Craig waiting room.

Now, if you are familiar with Zara fitting rooms, you know everything is very white … and VERY bright. You can’t hide from yourself in these bitches. So I went on my way, trying stuff on, trying not to make eye contact with my grotesque body. But when I went to put my ill-fitting pants back on I realized something: Wait. When did my black skinnies get so faded? And Jesus, when did the back pocket start to look like it is about to fall off? And OMG, when did I fall and rip the knee on these guys? What … is … HAPPENING! Then all of a sudden it hit me.


If I could have done a touchdown dance in the Zara fitting room, I would have … but the room was too restricting. Turns out I didn’t gain an excessive amount of weight overnight, I’m just a dumbass who keeps her old skinny jeans that should be thrown away still on a hanger in case of a “what if” moment (yes, I’m THAT psychotic).

So as you can assume, I’m super relieved and have since thrown those devil jeans away. The bad news is I have not the slightest idea where my real black skinnies are. If you have any information about their whereabouts please contact me ASAP.

Cheese fries for all!


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