Pants Don’t Lie

A recent tweet from a bloggy friend, reminded me of just how empowering new pants can be – given, of course, that those new pants are purchased in celebration of reaching weight-loss goals. As a measurement of “You Go Girl!” enthusiasm, there is little that beats the need- to-buy-smaller pants-metric.

But the pants-metric is a fickle friend – it’s a bitch really.  It doesn’t allow cheaters. It’s as ruthless and reality based as . . . well, reality.  Sure, you can buy a new cut of jeans that favor your best assets, but let’s face it, unless those jeans are smaller than the ones you currently own, it’s basically a cop-out – a way to infuse a jaunty new look into a tired, demoralizing wardrobe. 

Being reduced to wearing your “fat pants” is just that bad. I ought to know.  I’ve been wearing my “fat pants” since January.

I have some follow-up questions on the brutal truth of pants. 


How many pairs should I own for how many sets of circumstances?  Do I need to keep pants in stock (i.e. in drawers) that cover all the potential forms my lower half might take in the upcoming decades (insert SNL “Mom Jeans” skit here)?

As soon as I hit my goal weight (as determined by the combination of scale and need-to-buy-smaller pant-metric), should I throw out the old “fat pants” so any weight gain will be coupled with a financial disincentive?   Or, in a fit of economic conservatism, save the old “fat pants” knowing my tendency to play Chinese jump-rope with the pants-metric?

I’m not sure how to best proceed with my pants wearing, gathering, and hoarding, but I do know that pants don’t lie.