This week, I had a Pants Emergency.

I’m only telling you guys this stuff so you can laugh WITH me.  If I hear one of you motherfuckers laughing AT me, heads are gonna roll.

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So, it’s no secret that I’m blimpin’ up around the middle.  I’m closing in on 8 months into the gestating process, and I’m proud that I haven’t whaled out in every direction, but there’s no denying what’s going on in my ab region.  A man offered me his seat on the bus recently.  Of course, before I could take it, another man shoved me out of the way and dropped his own ass into it, so before you go thinking that chivalry is not dead, consider the second man.

I’m wearing these magical fat pregnant pants to w*rk, to accomodate my round stomach.  I tear those suckers off the second I walk in the door at home because fuck pants, but out in the world, I’m required to cover my ass by ignorant people who don’t want to know how awesome my ass is.

I’m digressing.

I’m wearing these magical fat pants to w*rk, which consist of regular looking pant legs, to keep the mystique of business-like trousers in play, but check this out, when they get to the part that goes under your shirt, WHAM!

They are like elastic sweatpants under there. 

WHAT!  Where have these things been all my life?

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I’ve been donning these magical fat pants since the middle of the second trimester.  Even though I could still wear regular pants, they were pinchy and I disliked the idea of Little13 getting a crease in her head due to unnecessary waist restriction. 

I bought a pile of the things, figured I was all set for pants, and went on with my life.  The minimalist in me eschews excess, particularly in stupid things that nobody enjoys like fat pants, so I didn’t go crazy.  Just enough to get me by.  I was the unnamed protagonist of Fight Club.  I figured I had that pants angle covered.  The first rule of Fat Club is you do not talk about Fat Club.

On Wednesday, I extracted my last clean pair of fat pants from the closet, to find that my uber comfortable supreme bliss fat pants were now officially THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE PANTS ON THE PLANET.  Apparently Little13 has repositioned in such a way that human pants come up to the exact least bendable area on my torso and the only pants I had to wear to w*rk were grinding vice torture wreckers. 

I had no choice. I wore the hell p*nts. 

By noon, I was homicidal.

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A co-w*rker saw me squirming.  “What’s up with you?  Why are you sitting all the way back in your chair like that?”

“FUCKING P*NTS” was all I could say.

“Ugh, what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna stab somebody in the face,” I explained.  “Not you.”  It’s important to specify that from a human resources perspective.

“You know, there’s a maternity store somewhere around here.  You could probably get some new…”

But I didn’t hear the end of her sentence, because I was already on the elevator, making a beeline for Fat Pregnant Pants Shoppe, Ltd.

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At the fat pregnant pants store, the salespeople are all very sympathetic ladies.  “How may I help you?” asked a lovely young skinny woman in normal pants.

“I am having a pants emergency,” I said to this total stranger.  I have no couth.

She was nonplussed.  “What kind of emergency?”

I could only wince and pantomime bending over while pointing to the waist area of my torture pants.  “I see,” she said.  “Please have a seat.  You look like a size small.  (!!!)  I’ll be right back with some pants.  Would you like some juice?”

I declined juice (forbidden).  “How about some cookies or water or something?”  She was an angel.  I did not accept the cookies or water, but it felt nice to be treated like I was five again.  I waited in a very large, plush, fat lady chair.

While I sat, I watched several girls in their early twenties shopping with their mothers.  They tried on prosthetic bellies under glittering club shirts and pleather leggings.  They oohed and aahed over maternity short-shorts while sporting strap-on stomachs.  The store supplies these things so you can shop ahead.  I didn’t have the heart to tell them that by the time their bellies were that big, it would be too cold for short-shorts.  None of my business.  Also, get your silly ass out of the club at this point.  Honestly now.

The saleswoman returned with some ridiculous looking pants. 

I tried them on and had about fourteen orgasms in the fitting room.  I bought them in every color. 

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So now it’s Friday and I’ve been wearing my collection of ridiculous pants for a couple of days now.  The ladies who work in pregnancy pants stores are so loving and attentive.  They asked for my mailing address so they could send me a bunch of shit in the mail, and I was so in love with them I provided it.  “Oh, are you (my mother-in-law)?”

“No,” I said.  “That is my mother-in-law.  She lives downstairs from me.”

“Oh!  Well she’s registered on our mailing list as well!”

Why is my mother-in-law registered with the fat pregnant pants store?  She’s really taking her role in this thing to a strange new level.

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Of course there is one important fact to be gleaned from all of this, the reason this is a post about perspectives and not just some stupid story about how I’m too disgusting to wear earth clothes anymore.  This is a story that goes from tragic discomfort to blissful glee.  It took only a stupid amount of money to achieve that kind of happiness, but even that is not what I want to talk about today.

Turns out I really *am* a “small”.

I wear the smallest size of Fatty Pants.

Victory.

Happy Friday, Idiots.

Comment of the Day:  “I don’t understand fashion.  But I do know that most of my jeans are not fashionable because the waist goes all the way up to the waist.” - Carolyn