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As my baby fat careens towards its 29th birthday it has decided to stage a rebellion against the waistband of my pants. Being a product of the Olivia Newton John “Grease” Era of painted on pants that came decades before we were to learn that camels had toes that were to be watched for in dressing room mirrors, I’ve always felt my pants were relatively form fitting without having to watch over my shoulder for zoo keepers or wildlife activists.
Standing in my closet this morning trying to decide which pair of capris to wear, my fat let me know in no uncertain terms, it was much happier in the cute little cargo pants with the drawstrings than in the standard denim with the confining zip-up fly and button. Oh, but tough love dies hard. I tucked that baby fat roll down into the waist band of the denim pants and told it to behave itself or there would be no ice cream after dinner tonight!
