My Goal and My Bane–Irish Green Pants (You are Beautiful)

30 Jan

As a woman (Or perhaps as anyone with this problem) I find there is nothing more disappointing in life than taking out a pair of old jeans or pants and finding that you are unable to put them on. Worse if you can’t even pull them past your theigh.For a while, I too faced this seemingly cruel problem of Jeans-fighting. The terror of finding a new crinkle in your skin, or  some flab around your lower back that looks like handles, but you do not Love as some maniac inaptly named them. The breaking point was ultimately when my doctor told me that I could either lose weight–or get Diabetes. As I love cake and all that is sugary (which is part of my whole problem) I decided it was time.

Lately, I’ve been sucked into the whole dieting fad that is Weight Watchers–and find myself 15 pounds thinner but still unable to fit into that one particular pair of pants. For me–the pants are Italian. Two (or was it three?) years ago, I spent a semester abroad in Florence, Italy. It was the best six months of my life and I would never do it over. Though–I would take back drinking from the water fountains in Rome as it ultimately led to my contracting Mono while I was there on my 21st birthday. (Seriously, am I the only one who can appreciate the irony of that?) They are soft, stretchy (but clearly not stretchy enough) torn in the knees as is fashionable now, and bright Irish green.They are both beautiful and bizarre, my goal and the bane of my waistline’s existence.

My Goal and the Bane of my existance

These are the dreaded Irish Green Pants..My Beauties and my Bane..

Now mind you, I am small to begin with. And having lost 15 (probably more) pounds since Thanksgiving is nothing to sneeze at. But these pants–taunt me.  I have gone from a size 10 to a size 4 in such a little amount of time–that it feel somewhat mind-boggling. Yet still the Pants do not fit. They are Italian pants in every way–small and somewhat catty. I still cannot get them past my knee.

I never thought of myself as having been heavy–nor do I think I was really–but these pants sometimes take me to a dark place in my mind where the overly weight obsessive female in me screams in agony at the sight of them. Yet, when I was size 8 or 10–I never felt fat. I still insist that I never was. I suppose that is in part thanks to my ever supportive boyfriend. A day doesn’t go by that he doesn’t surprise me with new ways to express how beautiful he thinks I am. Him along with my own (probably overly inflated) sense of self-worth has always made me feel that I was a beautiful person, no matter my size or shape. He is by far the more beautiful one in our relationship, inside and out.  This I put to you too, Reader, whoever you are. Always remember that you are beautiful–no matter how you look. Had it not been for the possibility of a cookie and cakeless existence, I would still be happily and pleasantly plumper.

Now, I battle the Green Pants with some vague but constant desire for things that cost far too many weight watchers points.

 

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