An open letter to my pants. Or, why I'm back on Weight Watchers.

Dear Pants,

Hi! Remember me?

I'm the girl who was down-right ecstatic when I bought you. You were so many sizes smaller than my Before-Pants. (Remember Before? It was when someone took those horrible pictures and Photoshopped me to look extra rotund? Bastards.) You were flattering. And hugged my curves in just the right places. You came from real-people stores, not that Lane Bryant that had been keeping me from nakedness for so many years.

I loved you! Other people loved you! They said you made my ass look hot. Mainly, you were lovely and fantastic.

But, see, now you're not.

In fact, you're pretty much decidedly UNLOVELY. UNFANTASTIC.

You look weird. You strain. You cause unseemly bulges. You make me take deep breaths before I hop up and down to zip you up. (And really, let's not forget about the time that I had to lie on the bed and say a quick prayer before yanking up that zipper.)

WTF? Com'n. I thought we were all BFFy. Why do you have to be this way?

Now, Stacy and Clinton would tell me to dress for the body I have, not for the body I want to have. And there's some sense to that. After all, we've all seen those great outfits they put together for the stubbornly poor dressers.

But I won't admit defeat. And, really, you guys are entirely too cute to say good bye to.

So, this isn't really a good bye. It's a see-you-soon type thing.

That's right, dear pants. (And, Ann Taylor. And Banana Republic. And The Gap. And, well, everywhere else.) Just like The Terminator before me: I'll be back.

See you in a few.

Love,
Noodles