Wow! Glad I got THAT off my chest. To get back on track...
Why is it that periods of joy in my life always seem to be accompanied by additional inches on my thighs? (Also butt, waist, and boobs, though I'm not complaining much about that last one.)
People out there know what I'm talking about - Happy Fat. Sometimes it's hidden under an alias, such as "the Freshman 15," which is simply code for, "Jesus H., I am SO glad I am finally out on my own, away from my controlling parental units, experiencing all of the freedoms and unprotected sex that a good college education can provide, that I'm going to eat nothing but delivery pizza and microwavable ramen noodles for the next four years."
Quite simply put, when you are happy in your life, you're happy with yourself. And you tend not to focus so much on what you look like or what you're eating...as long as you're happy.
Me? Well, I found the love of my life. My one. And with my one, I found my twenty.
Pounds. Yeah, that's right. I packed on nearly TWENTY pounds, that's 2-0, in less than a year. And all because I'm happier than I've ever been in my entire life. I'm more at peace with the world, and with my self, and I've been living in a blissful ball of ignorance while gorging on romantic dinners for two.
So goodbye, tiny designer size 4 jeans that no longer go up past my now elephantine kneecaps. Adios, hot little strapless dress that can no longer hold in my ballooning mammaries. Fare thee well, every belt in my closet. Seriously. EVERY belt.
And hello, stretch pants and oversize t-shirts. I am so thoroughly relieved that flowy, loose tunic tops are all the rage right now.
You know what the most depressing point was? Every girl out there - and hell, maybe some guys - have a beloved pair or two of what we like to call 'Fat Pants.' Jeans that are a little loose, khakis you can't wear without a belt, you get the picture. Now, I know what you're thinking - you're thinking, ah, her Fat Pants mysteriously morphed into her Skinny Jeans! But no, dear friends, a much more shocking phenomenon occurred.
My Fat Pants became, in a word, un-zippable.
WHAT?!?! You mean, not only are they no longer loose and comfy, a perfect fit on those bloated days that occur approximately every three and a half weeks, but they don't even fit a TEENSY LITTLE BIT??
In. Out. Breathe.
So I've had to go out and yes, actually buy a new wardrobe. But you know who went with me? The best guy a girl could be lucky enough to snag. So even though I've gone up a few sizes - nearly an entire cast member from the new 90210! - I still consider myself a pretty blessed chick - and I don't use that word very often. Blessed, I mean. I use 'chick' all the time. It's cleaner than 'bitch.'
Don't worry your pretty little heads about me! I'm perfectly, wonderfully...happy.
Just as long as my new Fat Pants don't start to pinch.
