1. After a brief flirtation with the size eight when I was a senior in high school, I have worn a size ten until maybe the last two years.
2. For most of my adult life, I have weighed between about 130 and 135 pounds.
3. Recently, I have noticed the following DISTURBING developments: I have gained weight: 10.4 pounds, to be exact. I can point to no real reason for having gained this weight, although, if truth be told, I blame society. Even more disturbing, I now wear a size eight. That's right: I have GAINED ten pounds, and I have LOST one pants size.
My friends, these pants are A LIE.
Now for the bitter truth: It is very possible that your pants are a lie too.
I wish I could tell you that this was a good thing. Sure, when I walked out of J. Crew with my loose-fitting size eight pants I felt the wonderful smugness that comes with wearing single-digit-size clothing. And, yes, maybe, for a while, I did go around shaking my head at the heavier masses while extolling my clearly superior virtue as a human.
But don't you see? It was never true! I never deserved the size eight! I never deserved the smugness. If anything I deserved greater shame because I gained fricking ten pounds, the truth of which was revealed to me today when I had my annual physical and my doctor said, "Wow! You've gained some weight."
True, true. The signs were there. I can now balance a cup of tea on my stomach. But I just thought I was getting middle-age flabby. It turns out I was it wasn't a middle aged thing. I was a weight thing.
But, no. I chose not to believe my own eyes! I chose to believe my J. Crew pants!
Now I just feel dirty. Dirty and ashamed and stupid. J. Crew never loved me. J. Crew only flattered me for my money. I'm such a size whore.