Every time I decide that yes, I am definitely getting away from gravy and biscuits, ice cream, cookies and cake, I just eat more of those zillion-calorie choices.
I tell myself stupid things like, “I might as well eat all the donuts. Tomorrow, they will be stale.” And “Tonight I deserve to happily eat most of this pizza since I will be so sad tomorrow when I start dieting.”
Anyway, while recently looking through my closet for maybe one piece of clothing that is not black, I ran across my favorite pair of pre-fat jeans.
“I’ll just test these,” I whispered under my breath. “Let me just see for myself how far I am from wearing these again.”
The minute I plucked the jeans from the hanger and stepped into them, the denim started to laugh.
“Are you kidding me?” my jeans cried. “You can’t get me above those monster thighs.”
“You can just shut your zipper,” I hissed as I pulled and yanked on the fabric.
But my jeans were right.
At midthigh my efforts were brought to a cruel stop.
“I haven’t worn them in a long time,” I muttered.
“Three years,” my jeans said. “You haven’t removed me from your closet in three years.”
“Well that’s the problem,” I said with a shrug. “You need stretched.”
“I’m not a trampoline,” the jeans snapped. “I cannot possibly stretch enough to accommodate your chunky, pear-shaped body.”
“You are awful,” I sniffed.
“And you are fat,” my jeans said with a giggle.
Again, I pulled on the jeans. But this time I hopped around in the bedroom, yanking with each hop. Well, yanking until I stabbed myself in the stomach by falling against the doorknob.
“Give up, before you need an ambulance,” my jeans said. “Give me away to a woman with the butt size you had three years ago.”
“Never,” I shouted.
“Give up, jello butt!” my jeans yelled. “Stop jumping around! You’re making me nauseous.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re right,” I sobbed. “I should be giving you away and replacing you with a pup tent.”
Until my doctor told me, I did not know that many women gain 30 to 35 pounds while going through breast cancer treatment. Between the small pharmacy of medications and the fact that mobility is so limited for such a long time, I have turned into a walking blimp. My age is working on me too, since I now have the metabolism of a turtle. Add my addiction to all things sugar and the end result is a full-feathered chick who cannot possibly squeeze into a size 8 again.
As in ever.
So this morning I decided to use my jeans as motivation.
“This is a waste of time,” my jeans complained as I hung them on the closet door.
“Shut it,” I said stiffly.
“What is your plan?” my jeans asked.
“Every day I will admire your much smaller waist,” I said. “I will remember who I once was and I will want even more, to go back to her.”
“That horse left the barn,” my jeans said with a laugh. “Your waist has completely disappeared. You can’t find your belly button, either.”
“I can work on that,” I said quickly.
“Give up,” my jeans groaned. “I can’t stand to see you punish yourself this way.”
“I said for you to just zip it,” I said sternly.
This afternoon, as I sailed through my bedroom, looking for my camera, the right leg of my jeans rose in the air and slapped a Twinkie right out of my hand.
As I bent over to grab my snack off the floor, that mean old denim leg again slapped the Twinkie from my grasp.
“Dang,” I glared at the jeans for a long moment.
“If you are serious about getting rid of your lard, you’d better trade the Twinkies for celery,” my jeans said seriously.
“Oh that is just a sad thought,” I said as tears welled in my eyes.
“And that is such a massive hind end,” my jeans said with a laugh.