the problem with pants

getting dressed really should not be such a traumatic event as it seems to be for many women. in order to avoid feeling depressed and uncomfortable and frustrated, we all have our stash of safety pants. safety pants fit you all the time. they're practically magic. you put them on and you know that zipper will zip and that button will button and you won't entice the fatties with your lovely muffin top. you don't necessarily feel super hot, but you don't feel like a lardball. i oft choose not to feel like a lardball (too greasy) so most of my pants fall into the safety-pant category.

unfortunately, my thighs have decided to wage war against my well-being and peace of mind. 

i don't know why it happened, but starting in august, i have lost seven — SEVEN — pairs of safety pants. they have all suffered strikingly similar casualties — ripping in the inner thigh, just too high to make into shorts — so i know it's not the pants' fault. i don't so much mind that my thighs seem to be ballooning before my eyes, i only really mind about the fact that i am down to three — THREE — pairs of jeans. three pairs may be sufficient for people who, say, do laundry, but since i don't, three pairs is nowhere near enough. 

it's enough to make a girl want to start wearing skirts. let's see the thighs try to bust out of those, baby.