An Open Letter To My Fat Pants

Dear Fat Pants,

You have many names by which all women know you; yoga pants, sweatpants, or pajama pants. My favorite being faux-ga pants, because my pants have never seen one solitary downward facing dog. That is, except for my lazy 140 pound Bernese Mountain dog who only moves three times a day.  Whatever I call you, please know that you are loved.  You are loved beyond measure.

For when my jeans say “stop eating brownies” you say “girl, you look good, your waist is the same size.” When my shorts from last summer say “dang woman, go to the frickin’ gym once in awhile” you sweetly whisper “shhhh, you’re fine just the way you are, have some wine ice cream.”  You are my everlasting favorite.  You accept me for the person I am and not the person I should be.  You don’t need me to dress up and look nice for a date- you just want me to sit on the couch and binge watch Netflix.  You ask nothing of me, and yet you still love me unconditionally.

And fat pants, I love you unconditionally too.  I don’t need you to be clean or pressed or even smell nice because you are always my favorite. You welcome me home every time I put you on like a warm hug on a cold day.  There’s only one problem in our relationship…

The only problem in our relationship is other people. You might not know this dearest fat pants but you are not necessarily loved by everyone.  I’m pretty sure my sweet husband has become tired of seeing a saggy bottomed, stained sweat pant every time he comes home.  I’m pretty sure the neighbors cover their eyes as I tromp around my front yard picking weeds in my clingy yoga pants.  I’m pretty sure the UPS guy goes into a mild state of depression every time I have to sign for my wine delivery amazon books when he sees I’m wearing the same pants as yesterday- and the day before and the day before.  I’m quite sure the children prefer that their mom look like a socially acceptable member of society instead of a homeless person begging for wine bread.  And even though I love you fat pants, I might be a little embarrassed of you.  You see, sometimes I dare to wear you to carpool where I sweat heavy, gigantic bullets hoping that there will be no reason for me to step out of my car for fear the whole world will know our secret love.  They would judge us so harshly.

So fat pants, here’s the deal. We may have to keep our love a little more secret.

Don’t worry, I’ll never leave you or forsake you. This just could not happen. However, I may need to hide our love affair from the prying eyes of the world. I may have to take some trips to the gym so I can wear jeans without feeling like a boa constrictor is slowly murdering me.  I may have to keep those same horrible jeans next to the front door so I can change faster than Celine Dion at her Las Vegas show if my wine books show up.  I may have to put something “nice” on so my sweet husband doesn’t decide to become a sweet ex-husband.  I may have to look presentable so my children will still claim me when I call them in from playing with their friends instead of looking around like they’re trying to find the mutant spawn that must have come from me.

I still love you fat pants.  I’ll love you forever.  Every time I wear horrible, restrictive real clothes you’ll be there with me because I’ll be dreaming of you until we can be together again.

Love Always,

Forever Addicted