Saga of the (not so) skinny pants

Has this ever happened to you? You're standing in your closet, overwhelmed by the mind numblingly boring chore of figuring out just what the heck to wear, and something catches your eye...?

Way up high on a shelf, where you put them so you wouldn't have to come face to face every single day with the knowledge that you are a fat load who can't fit into them any more: your skinny pants.

Before you can stop yourself, your arm is reaching...

Stop it! Right this minute, young lady. Today is NOT the day to be doing this to yourself, if you know what I mean. You are soooooo NOT skinny today. I'm pretty sure I saw you eat an entire carton of ice cream last night. In fact, you could easily be mistaken for a beached, bloated whale. So why would you even try? You really DO hate yourself, don't you?!

But you just can't help yourself. You've already got them in position: Right up there, in front of your eyeballs. My butt can't be THAT big, can it? You're gonna give it a go. You give 'em a little shake and lower your arms, and start to balance on one foot...

Stop it now. Right this minute. They aren't even NICE. They are all ripped and everything! Why did you even keep them?! And why would you do this to yourself? What is your problem, you psycho?

But you are not listening any more. You are going to put those pants on, dammit, even though you are still wet from the shower and that isn't going to help tight jeans exactly glide right on. Apparently there is some itch for self-flagellation today, and you'll be damned if you don't scratch it.

You're a stubborn mule! I mean COW. What are you doing? Listen, lady. Do not come to me when you're crying into your farmer's market pie when this goes all wrong on ya', do you hear me?

And you keep going... and then you smile a little, as the pants make it over your hips. Hey! That wasn't so bad. They fit! They fit! There is even a little room. Wouldja look at that?! And you are so astounded, and happy, you do a restrained happy dance (there isn't, after all, a lot of space - it's a closet) and you smile and turn around to see if there is anyone to share your happy news. (There isn't - it's still a closet.) Even so, you are happy. And so damn proud of yourself. Dude, I am the balls, you think.

But still, something is niggling, there, at the back of your mind. You just can't shake it. Because deep in your heart, you know the real truth: you are not the balls. You DID eat that ice cream and some pie. And two glasses of wine. OK, OK, three. AND some goldfish crackers. Something - you just don't know what yet - is wrong here. Really, really wrong. Starting with their condition. They are not such great pants that you would have saved them. They are a little beat up, not too flattering, and well... not exactly worth being skinny for, really.

Still, though, the call of the skinny is overwhelming. Ugly or no, you are gonna wear 'em, dammit. So it only comes to you, sometime later, as you're standing there, looking for something to wear with the pants.

Something catches your eye. Way up high, where you'd put them: it's your skinny pants.

Hm, you think.

Ohhhhhh! you think, finally figuring it out.

Turns out, what you actually grabbed and managed to get on, you'd also put way up high on that shelf, to avoid coming face to face daily with another of your failures: finding time to take care of your yard. They're your fat gardening pants.

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The folks over at humor-blogs have a better system for keeping track of their clothing.