Hibernating on the top shelf on my closet.
Laid to rest in a large Tupperware tomb deep within my attic.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Besides having no style, fat pants have no mercy, no memory, no pride.
Their elastic waistbands whisper: “We’ll take you as you are.”
Their oversized seat assures: “We’ll always be here for you.”
In the past, I have ditched britches as fast as I could lay claim to a smaller size. I thought I was burning the bridge behind me, but should have realized that the world is full of bridges, and crossing the gap back to those fat pants is as easy as… well… pie.
I’ve lost roughly 70 pounds in the last two years, but I’ve kept a most of those fat pants close by. I don’t hold on to them as a denim-and-khaki safety net, mind you; I keep them to provide a healthy dose of fear and reality to the task at hand.
I keep them as a constant reminder that what I do is a choice.
I can eat healthy and exercise… and wear the pants I have on right now.
I can stray from my purpose and my plan and revisit the ghosts of my past.
And my pants.
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