I took a glance down, and sure enough, they were in full salute, in all their glory. I did notice that I had moved back to my larger bras, that some sweaters were no longer fitting comfortably, the buttons on my work shirts were giving the occasional peep, and that I was attracting flies with my hu-hu-hunny.

I also noticed that running, walking, climbing the stairs, rollerblading, and chasing Ming to give her medicine hurt like a bitch.

But what�s a little pain for an oh-so-exciting gain?

Because I�m a sloth, I finally got around to ironing clothes. Among the piles of button-up summer shirts (that I promptly threw into the summer clothes storage box without ironing) were my Fantastic Pants. I ironed those bad boys and dutifully hung them up.

In celebration of today being a Friday, knowing that CW3 will soon be gone (and may she suffer a case a cervical asthma as the door hits her on the ass as she leaves!), and my pants finally being dragged out of the depths of my closet (also known as my ironing stack and Hambone�s favorite sleeping spot), I put on the Fantastic Pants and -- GASP! -- The fuckers barely fit!

Snug in the tush, snug in the thighs! Imagine my surprise!
Cries, pies, french fries, and no longer feeling pint-sized!
Fit in the hips, fit in the waist! Whew -- at least braced!
But still disgraced, encased, and feeling like toxic industrial waste!

[Damn I�m glad there was no Internet when I was an angst-y teenager writing bad poetry. I would have gone way overboard with the rhyming dictionary. Alas, I now use it to find words that express displeasure with me putting on what�s probably only four strategically-placed pounds.]

It�s not the weight because I�m liking the boobage, but my fantastic pants had better start fitting! However, since I�m one of those lucky bitches who can think about low-fat granola and a Stairmaster and lose six pounds, I�m not too worried.

Decency be dammed, I wore the pants to work anyway. �