Stupid pants… stupid, stupid pants

25 08 2009

So the daily running thing is working its magic. The baby weight is slowly but surely disappearing and I’m feeling stronger and stronger every day and every run. I’m on top of the world when I return from a run just as the sun dips behind the horizon of trees and buildings. I have more energy after the run than I had before it, and I’m pleased with my slow but steady progress back into the sport. (And I can blame the pregnancy for my inactivity, but the knee injury didn’t help matters at all.)

I sleep better at night after running and I greet each morning just about as happy as Princess Azita, who smiles with her lips a second or two before she opens those big brown eyes and starts to smile with those at her Maman… then Baba. I’m patient, I can wait. I get about 10 minutes with her by myself, then Zahra returns with clothes for the day and I jump up for  a shave and to get us a couple iced coffees. I throw on some clothes (there just isn’t enough time to care as much as I used to care each morning and to be honest, my neckties feel a bit neglected these days.) So I grab a polo and a pair of pants. And that’s when my morning crashes. All because of my stupid, stupid pants.

I’m about 20 pounds over my Fighting Weight now. Oh I’ve been plenty more over my ideal weight in the past but for about the last five years I’ve been in a Happy Place. In fact, the only times I discover I’m  in an Unhappy Place is when I put on pants. Women understand this. Some men do. No men talk about it.

When your weight goes up — because of age, an injury, a lack of ability to get off your ass and work out — for whatever reason the pants are the most unforgiving member of your wardrobe. I’ve worn tight shirts and lived to tell the tale. But a tight pair of pants is just wrong. Looks wrong. Feels wrong. Is wrong. Pants need to fit. They should be comfortable and they should “work” for you — not the other way around. To battle this issue, I buy new pants. I like new pants. New pants make me happy. I buy them, I wear them and I feel better. I am heavier, but I’m well dressed.

But for the last few days, my stylist (and wife) has noticed what I’ve been trying not to notice: my pants are too big. Easy for her to say. Trouble is, I’m what you would call “in-between sizes” right now. It’s either a little baggy or a little snug. Comfort vs. looks. My mind tells me to run an extra mile every night and jump from the bigger size to the next size and do it as quickly as possible to make sure no one pays attention enough to call me on the fact my pants don’t fit. But if Zahra notices the pants thing, others will. Now I’m stuck at work and I don’t want to get up to go get coffee because my pants are too big.

Like I said. Stupid, stupid pants.




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