This past Turkey Day, I forgot all the rules. I snacked with reckless abandon. And I did it all. day. long. I ate nacho flavored Dorito's, cashews, deviled eggs and even that damn caramel corn from Chicago that I bought for my family in an effort to be cute.
I ate it all.
So when the turkey was wheeled out and all the sides were set up (we do it buffet style, of course!) I was faced with the harsh realization that I was already full. But did that stop me? Hell to the no! I ate again with reckless abandon. I inhaled the turkey and gravy, the sweet potato souffle, the stuffing, the delicious casserole "surprise" that I couldn't identify but thought was delicious anyway. I ate all of it.
But even as my belly began to spill over the waist band of my jeans, I knew it was all going to be okay. Even though my eyes were glazed over. Even though drool trickled out of the side of my mouth. Even though I was quite confident I'd gained at least 5 pounds that day.
It was all going to work out because...
I'd traveled with my FAT PANTS.
My olive green, Juicy Couture, velour, with a very forgiving waist band, FAT PANTS.
When I stopped by to see Liz after my feast, her skinny jean wearing twenty-somethings relatives could not comprehend what FAT PANTS were, let alone understand why someone would wear them. They stared at me blankly, clearly not grasping the concept of food having such an immediate impact on ones physical body. I knew that one day, when their metabolism was more like a tortoise than a hare, they'd understand...or at the very least, have a friend who did.
And over the years, my FAT PANTS haven't just been there for me. They've also hidden my cheese-induced bloat, clad the pants-less and comforted my friends in times of need.
FAT PANTS to The Rescue! When Liz's brother, Brian, was in a terrible car accident earlier this year, my FAT PANTS stepped right in. Our other BFF, La Sundra had left straight from work to be at the hospital in her suit and pumps (yes, pumps) and didn't have any other clothes with her. And as we sat across from each other in the waiting room, I could tell she was uncomfortable. And I knew just what to do! I reached in my bag and retrieved the juicy pants. She simply nodded and went in the bathroom to change. And when I got cold and put on the matching jacket, we also were able to provide vast amounts of comedy relief as we sat side-by-side. Hey, I was just happy I could help.
Who needs maternity pants? When Liz was pregnant with her second child, she became enraged at the concept of maternity jeans. (Something about ill fitting waist bands and fake denim made her want to puke up her prenatals.) I quickly arrived on the scene with the answer: The juicy pants! (In this case, I'm sure you can appreciate why I did NOT refer to them as Fat Pants...) They even made an appearance at the hospital the day Liz's son was born. In fact, she told me she had been wearing them for five days straight because they were the only pants that still fit. I felt honored that my FAT PANTS were the last pants standing.
So, I'd like to give a shout out to my FAT PANTS (that I'm wearing now for inspiration and also because I couldn't resist the second croissant at my hotel's complimentary buffet) and say THANK YOU for protecting and serving my friends and me for so many years. I look forward to many, many more to come!