It's official - I'm fat

I've always known this to be true. After all, it's been the case since I was seven years old. I remember waiting in line for school uniforms with my mom before I started first grade and having to get a "special size." I see it and feel it every single day. But this morning, it was like my fat pants slapped me in the face.

It was cold this morning, the kind of cold that makes you want to snuggle deeper under the covers instead of facing the day. Alas, I have to earn a paycheck, so I had to get up. I had to put on pants, it was too cold for anything else.

I pulled out a pair of black pants, my go-to work attire. They are too small. I can't even get the button to meet the hole, much less get it through the hole. I reach for a brown pair, first checking the size. Same size as the black pants, but surely the brown pants will fit. I actually manage to get these buttoned, but I know that if I sit down, bend, or exhale, the button will no longer be attached to the pants. I stood there, stupidly staring at my closet as if new pants would magically appear. Or as if I could magically make myself fit into some of the pants already in my closet.

I resign myself to wearing a skirt with a nice, stretchy elastic waistband. It's too cold for a skirt, but I'm pretty sure they would frown on my comfy, elastic-waist track pants at the office. I want to cry. These are the fat pants that I keep at the back of my closet. The "I'll never get that big again" pants. How is that I've managed to not only get that big, but bigger? The pants beg the question, what are you going to do about yourself? The pants, literally, looked me in the eye and said, "how did you let this happen?" My pants call me names. I feel a deep sadness that I can never fully verbalize.

Maybe tomorrow the pants will fit.