This week I packed up my last pair of skinny pants to finally get them out of the house. You know, the pair that hung in the back of my closet for so long a thin layer of dust coated the top of the hanger and the pants fold.
We all have a pair of skinny pants. The ones we once could wear but now can’t pull them up passed our knees. The ones we promise ourselves we’ll wear again when we get rid of that Baby Fat. My baby just turned 27. My dream is a distant memory.
I tell myself if I ever do drop the BF and manage to fit into a size 10 again, I can simply buy a new pair of jeans, but it won’t be the same. It won’t give me that feeling of accomplishment slipping into those well-worn in just the right places jean would.
Maybe I should dig those pants out of the donation bag sitting at the front door – dust them off before hanging them back in the closet then take a walk around the block… for old-times’ sake.