A few weeks before my 29th birthday, I was asked to turn to page 29 of the nearest book and use the content to write a blog post. Amy Poehler’s Yes Please just happened to be sitting next to me. Page 29 just happened to be about the different kinds of pants that were popular in the eighties.
The use of italics here is purely ironic, my love handle extenuating friend. None of this just happened. It is fate. As is this letter to you.
Do you remember when we met, in the Junior’s department at Kohl’s when I was thirteen? I found you on the sale rack. You taught me how to pick a shirt that revealed the right amount of midriff. In my twenties, you inspired me to do one more sit-up or run one more mile so that we could be together longer. We had a pretty sexy, fifteen-year affair.
You’ve noticed the strain in our relationship lately, right? I have to tug and pull on you. Truthfully, I’m embarrassed to be seen with you. I wear long shirts or tunics to hide your presence. Worst of all, I’m constantly trying to cover our butt. Because of you!
This breakup is your fault. You created this mold for who I was and trapped me inside of it. I can no longer live up to this image, Low-Rise Jeans. It is time for my body and mind to evolve. I’d rather stand pant-less, in knee high socks, than stay with you.
That’s not quite true. I do need pants. I’m dependent on pants.
I found someone else in the Woman’s section at Express. Mid-Rise Jeans make me feel comfortable. My secrets are kept safe with him. Our love feels secure and the spark is still there too. He’s two or three inches longer than you and makes me feel like a million bucks.
So long, my friend.