Like
someone on assistance voting Republican in the belief that he is a temporarily
embarrassed millionaire, and the tax policies will someday come around and make
him a billionaire, I hang onto size 34 and 36 pants, a temporarily embarrassed
ectomorph convinced that someday, like a political wave sweeping the opposition
back into power, he will be thin again.
I
squeeze in somehow, every morning wondering if around the office they can see thighs
strain through the disgraceful death grip of Target’s finest around
overindulged ass. I give in and wonder who will notice the 38 on the back of my
new jeans.
Some
thin Goodwill shopper could no doubt get use out of my outgrown pants
but
I hang onto them, taking up space in my closet, a monument to pride
and
the perhaps foolish belief that I will be back to fighting form anytime soon.
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