Fat Pants

Nearly every female, and an occasional male, who I know owns a pair of “fat” pants.
You know the ones – all of the comfort of stretch that spandex and cotton blends will allow.
They’re the same pants prepared people wear to a Thanksgiving dinner, and which women will sport when they know they are most likely to retain uncomfortable pounds of water. They’re perfect pants for lounging around the house and they go well with no-make-up, hair-in-a-messy-ponytail kind of days.
I love my fat pants for the comfort they promise on days when I need them most, and I hate my fat pants for the fact that I need them at all. I hate them most when I need them for weeks on end. But the worst – the absolute worst – is when the fat pants transition to become just regular pants.
Maybe you’ve been there? Maybe you have experienced the moment when you’re feeling all sorts of bloated and gross and so you turn to your closet and reach for your steadfast friend thinking, “at least I can dress in comfort today,” only to find that when you step into the pants, the legs are tighter than normal and the waist pinches just a little and your fat pants are suddenly just pants. Ill-fitting, uncomfortable, confining prisons for your body.
This is what I refer to as the “uh-oh” moment.
It’s at the precise moment when the fat pants no longer fit the way they are supposed to that I tend to go into panic mode.
Immediately, I rush to the cupboards and start to purge them of all sorts of foods I know I need to avoid. I hop online and pull up a few exercise routines and new healthy recipes. I make an impromptu trip to the grocery store to stock up on veggies and high-protein, lower-calorie snacks. I make charts, take measurements, and posts inspirational pictures and sayings on the fridge and on my mirror. A half an hour later, I’m back on track.
I’m able to quickly pull the health routine together because, sadly, I have so much practice. Over the years, I’ve had more uh-oh moments then I dare admit. It’s sort of like holding a fire drill, once you’ve done it enough times, you’re able to escape a building blindfolded and sensory deprived in record time.
I’m unsure I would even be able to count the number of times I’ve set out determined to fix myself in my lifetime. I flirt with mild success on occasion, too. But it never seems to stick. This roller coaster lifestyle is what I know. It’s an up and down ride through healthy times and not-so-healthy times – mentally as well as physically.
It’s hard to feel good when failure comes as often, or more frequently, than successes – and when I am able to fail so much more successfully than I am able to succeed. I know everything about the formula for losing weight and improving my health. I know how to count calories, weigh my food, compare nutritional values, set-up an exercise routine…
I know everything, it seems, except how to make the change permanent. Intellectually, I do know how to make the change permanent, but life has yet to work the way I think it should. Until I can bring those fat pants to a donation box at Goodwill, and say good-bye forever, I feel as though I’m doomed to this life of rinse and repeat. Until I figure out how to let go, I will keep working my way out of my fat pants so I can fold them and tuck them into the deepest recesses of my closet where they will patiently wait for when I need them again.