I think most girls are familiar with the fat-pants day, but I’m certain there are a number of individuals who have engaged in the ritual without giving it a second thought. I seek here to illuminate this very special day, one that can take the grossly heavy cross that is life and turn it into a small cotton satchel that carries only flowers and invisible rainbows.
At its core, the “fat pants” day is one in which one wakes up and realizes she won’t be at all “productive” during her next 14-16 hours unless he/she wears pants that either utilize an elastic band and/or are one-to-two sizes too big.
You better believe that when I feel like I can mold my slimy little hands around my waist and have a solid grasp on all that tight terrain I am not getting anywhere near the fat pants. They become the leper in the closet.
On other days, the very idea of slipping into them is akin to the feeling I imagine Coleridge or what’s-his-face conjured as they idly spent their days skipping through the Lake District and deciding what constituted art, poetry and literature in the late 18th century. I digress.
There are a number of reasons one might engage in a “fat pants” day.
1) One has binged. Usually on McDonald’s. For a few days in a row.
2) One has sensory integration disorder. Live it; learn it; Google it.
3) One is bloated due to normal physical processes.
4) One is exhausted and angry with the world.
Fat-pants days cannot always be anticipated and are not discerning in terms of when they might strike.
Typically my fat-pants days fall on days I have to hightail it to work. Like most Americans, this means Monday-Friday, a very unfortunate schedule. The shockingly high ratio of fat-pants’
days to the the number of work days could simply be the fact that Mon-Fri constitutes five days and there are only seven days in a week. It could also mean that workplace attire typically requires a little more “energy” out of an individual to pull-off. And sometimes we just don’t have that energy.
Since I do have self-diagnosed sensory integration disorder along with a penchant for consuming fast food and “passing out” in the evenings, I can often be found wearing what some of my friends refer to as my “clown pants.” These striped slacks, proudly bearing the Lane Bryant tag with its size 14 label, make me feel like I’m walking through and on clouds. No more pesky red lines across my tummy when I get home. And no more shooting shoulder-blade sores as a result of slouching over in “regular” pants to feel smaller and less paunchy while sitting at the computer.
So today, I sit here wearing my fat pants. And aside from the somewhat overriding sense of guilt and embarrassment I feel at appearing in public and serving as the face of an organization while wearing these pants, I feel truly free.
Re: the fat-pant experience, I offer one caveat. A fat-pants’ day can only work when the pants are actually still fat pants. When they start to fit, you’re in for a shit storm of negative emotions and unpredictable breakdowns. This could precipitate a number of visits to Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, trainers, gyms, etc.
So to those of you who too are experiencing a fat-pants day, I salute you, knowing the physical and psychological feelings the experience brings up. To those who have not yet experienced it, I suggest you praise whatever (G/g)od(s) you subscribe to. And to those who have no idea what I’m talking about, put down the leather “roof” on your Sebring and keep on rollin’ through life wearing the jeans you’ve never had to unbutton whilst head-nodding in the direction of the dimepiece model broad in your passenger seat.