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We Will Mock You

Last night, just after dinner:
    David: "Those pants look great on you."
    Frankie: "I feel like a sausage link in them."
I may have done my fair share of eating over the holidays and even my snuggest fitting jeans allow me to breathe properly. The low rise are happy to comply when I'm praying I make it sans struggle to the top of the button fly, the robin's egg blue Diesel hip hugging slacks cooperate in the most elegant of fashion by forgiving a pound or two; but the basic brown, lounge-around cords refuse to make me happy.

Sure, he thinks they look great on me. He kind of has to say nice things like that. No really, I pay him to.

And it's not like I don't have other things to wear. From the day we moved in, the spare bedroom has been known as the "walk in closet".
    He: "Have you seen my pink polo?"
    Me: "Check the closet. The big one."
The pants mock me. The pants remind me to walk to work in the morning. And home at night. The pants remind me to put down the doughnut and reach for the banana instead.

The pants are OK with my coffee intake, though. So I'm keeping them.

But only until brown is so over.

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