If the Pants Fit, Wear Them!

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My New Year’s resolution was to get to my ideal weight (one that doesn’t include any numbers above 3) but I’ve crashed and burned already.

I’ve made the same resolution every year for the past two decades and failed miserably every year, and I’ve been able to blame everyone and everything…except myself. One year, it was pregnancy. Another year, another pregnancy. One memorable year, it was “stress” from a new job, but the year before that, I blamed stress from staying in my old job.

This year, I finally have a good excuse for not following through: my husband’s pants.

Actually, all of my husband’s clothes are to blame. I have come to the conclusion that his hand-me-downs are conspiring to keep me ballooning up to the stratosphere weight-wise.

How, you may ask?

It started innocently enough. One hot summer’s day, I was sweating like a pig and had to switch from jeans to shorts. Not having shorts of my own that fit comfortably (aka, that would let me sit down without cutting off circulation to my upper thighs), I found a pair of Matt’s old shorts.

I slipped them on, andEureka!  I was magically transported back to those heady days when I was losing weight and everything in my closet became loose, baggy, and incredibly comfortable.

His shorts were loose. They sagged. I could pull the waistband away a good 2 inches from my waist (yes, I still call it that, although it doesn’t technically exist anymore, post-menopause).

This was a miracle, and man, it was great. The next day, I asked him if I could wear that old ratty pair of jeans he had stashed in the back of his closet. Okay, he said, I love you, I said, and again, clothing nirvana.

It was addicting. Sweatpants, khakis, more shorts, more jeans…I couldn’t stop. And the more I wore his pants, the more I ate. Figure it out: I was falling prey to the subliminal message that I had (pardon the expression) “room to grow.” By the end of the summer, I had outgrown a lot of Matt’s old stuff, and was on the hunt deeper into his closet for more.

Sabotaged by my own lust for looseness, I had accidentally entered the “Baggy Clothes” vortex, that psychological state in which you eat more simply because you think you can.


That explained my New Year’s resolution, and why it hasn’t made a dent. I guess I should have gone with Plan B, which was swearing off the raids on Matt’s closet and manning (woman-ning?) up enough to buy my own clothes.

Better yet,…Plan C, also known as Plan C-Cup, which would have restricted me to wearing Matt’s shirts and tees, assuming an end result what would put pounds on my “girls” instead of my bum.

Sure, Plan C remains theoretical for the moment, but it does have lots of potential and plenty of support. Just ask Matt.



About Cate Drew

I’m on the high side of 40, with three dogs, two teens and one husband, living in a small New England town in a house that’s never quiet. Ever. It’s not that I have a really colorful life – I just tend to write colorfully about it. And there’s plenty of material: marriage to the Man of a Thousand Bad Ideas,.. my mom, who moved Dad’s coffin closer to the street six months after he died so she could visit his grave as a kind of drive-up window…our dog posse…our kids…lots of siblings and in-laws, former co-workers, old boyfriends -- they’re all here. Toss in 14 years of Catholic school and you’ve got a lot of guilt, too. Which reminds me: forget “high side of 40.” I’m 51, damnit.