Everyone is familiar with the concept of Fat Jeans... or, well, everyone that I can associate with because those girls who just lose 15lbs without trying tend to get lifted up up and clean away by the gale forces my eye rolling creates.
But Fat Jeans, yes? The reserve pair you keep in the drawer for the morning after you have six bowls of free bar cheese curls and an equally questionable number of beers? Exactly.
They're the pair you need the week before your period or the weeks so far after your period you think you might need to accommodate a burgeoning uterus. Fat Jeans. Everyone's got 'em.
But what about skinny jeans?
Not the emo cum Audrey Hepburn style Gap foisted upon us a few years ago that is flattering on no one save goth teenagers staging a hunger strike until somebody understands them. No, skinny jeans as in the opposite of fat jeans. The jeans on reserve in case the stars align and you have an explosive case of diarrhea, a heinous break-up, and a craving for celery and only celery, all at the same time.
Are skinny jeans ever in rotation? Are they just depressing reminders of what will no longer be? I mean... let's face it. We never actually lose fat cells, the existing ones just get smaller.
I lost a lot of weight last year in the throes of a vicious break-up and a determination to find a beach worthy bod. So much so my clothes didn't fit well. Thus, I went shopping. And lo, I bought items to fit my thinner self.
Well now I'm a lot happier and healthier and apparently I carry some of that good will around my midsection. This makes all the new things from last spring and summer laughably impossible.
But. Do I keep a pair of pants from that era? Just in case? I mean... again, the stars could align. I might still yet require skinny pants.
Blah. I think I just need to get over the fact that I will never again have my 16 year old metabolism. Okay. Skinny pants will go.
Let the purging for the impending move begin!
Edited to add: Wherein purging is not a Freudian-ly placed metaphor... I really need to throw stuff out. As in, not food from my body. But rather all the crap that accrues after eight years of moving the same effing stuff. Don't fret my pets.