I’m wearing my skinny jeans.

Just in case you missed that, I said:

I’m wearing my skinny jeans.

I’m tempted to end the post right here. I mean, that kind of says it all, doesn’t it? But just to make a sweet moment even sweeter, I’ll throw in a few details. When I was about 20, I went to the Levi Store outlet with my mom. I bought three pairs of jeans that have served me faithfully for the last eight years (crazy, I know). Then, in a combination between eight-year old denim and extra chunkage on my end (literally), I was getting into Good Times’ van last Thanksgiving and ripped my favorite pair. Right in the ass. In front of Good Time, JB, Manned Up, and Cuervo. That was a fun day.

So that was the end of the first pair. The second pair, I noticed, was getting awfully thin around the knees That plus the fact that I was feeling like shit about my fat butt tearing a hole in the ass of a pair of similar-sized pants was enough to convince me those were done too.

But I held on to the third pair. I didn’t notice any major signs of wear and tear, no thinning denim anywhere… so I stuffed them into a dark drawer and wouldn’t let myself think about them. Instead, I tried to come to terms with my fat ass. “I’ve been working from home so I move around a lot less. It’s understandable.” “I have more money now than I used to so I eat richer meals at nicer restaurants now. It’s understandable.” “I bought these jeans when I was 20. I’m now 28. I’m supposed to have a larger ass. It’s understandable.”

Now that I’m wearing my skinny jeans for the first time since Thanksgiving, I can safely say my denial was a pretty strong effort, but at the end of it all I was pretty much full of shit.

Because I’m in my skinny jeans.

In case you missed, you know, the theme of today’s post.