Pantaloony

     I used to be really good at knowing the things that would trigger my becoming of a total nutjob. There were certain things that would immediately send me from a self-controlled Beyoncé headspace to a complete Amanda Bynes in a matter of seconds, and I could smell them from a mile away. I prided myself in this ability. I told myself that only the most secure girls could sense their crazy and lasso it back into something manageable. I think that actually might be the definition of mental stability. Look it up. The problem is that, lately, I have completely lost this vital ability to reverse-Hulk myself back into a person suitable for society. I’ve been totally taken over by hormones.

This became glaringly evident to me yesterday. I was trying on a pair of stylishly flowing pants from Urban Outfitters that I had purchased late one night while trolling the Internet for things I don’t need. The most rational part of me had known as soon as I hit “add to cart” that the pants would never fit my child bearing hips and protruding gut, but the idealistic part of me knew that the simple act of typing in my credit card number would make me feel alive. It was one of those devil and angel on your shoulder situations and I had given into the promise of sartorial splendor over the bore of financial accountability. As I stared in the mirror at my body shoved into the pants like a pregnant chimichanga, I stared to cry. But, the thing was, my tears weren’t those of lament for the complete Nichole Ritchie moment the pants would have provided, or tears of sadness at the loss of my old body; these were tears of sheer rage at the profiling, animal house that, obviously, was Urban Outfitters. Who did they think they were, not catering to those with the bodies of chubby angel statues? My mind drifted to thought of activism for fuller-framed individuals. Is this the kind of garbage Gabourey Sidibe had to deal with? I wanted no part of that kind of discrimination.

As I threw the pants back into the box and grabbed my computer to order an XL t-shirt that said something along the lines of “I MIGHT BE CHUNKY, BUT I STILL DESERVE TO DRESS FUNKY,” Alex entered the room. Realizing the state I was in, he urged me to go into the living room and fire up some Vanderpump Rules to clear my head. He was right, I needed to mellow out and really explore what it was that was making me feel sad, angry, and inspired all at once. Was this about pants or something much deeper?

As I watched Stassi question Jax’s fidelity while simultaneously throwing a drink on Katie, I let myself crawl into a trance of self-discovery. I thought back to the roller coaster of feelings that I had been riding the last few months. There was the time that I had caused the front desk girl at the doctor’s office to cry when she had told me it would take 15 days to transfer my records to my new doctor. She was just being dramatic, right? That couldn’t have been my fault. I had simply questioned her commitment to her field. I mean, if it took her 15 days to send a fax, maybe she wasn’t cut out for clerical work. I also don’t really think I took it too far when I requested that she let me come behind the desk and send the fax myself while she took a second to reflect on what the hell was wrong with her. There was also that other time when I started crying so hard during One Direction’s song Story of My Life that I had to pull over until I could get it together. What about that other time when my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I became so enraged that she didn’t already know that I told her I wanted nothing at all and called three separate times that day to make sure she wasn’t getting me a present because I DID NOT WANT ONE. She ended up getting me a gift, but I wonder what would have happened to her if she hadn’t. It couldn’t have been good. Could all these events be connected by one common denominator?

It was at this moment that Alex came into the living room jokingly sporting the pants that had ruined my life only a few hours before. He thought it would be a funny, light-hearted way to cheer me up. As I looked up from my Bravo favorite and saw him, I was overcome with a myriad of familiar emotion. The fabric was loose yet flattering on his frame. The slightly transparent fabric revealed the lining, which was cut into shorts, perfectly giving him the exact sexy, bohemian edge I was trying to achieve. He was taking those pants from sweatshop-made high school free dress day to Valentino Pre Spring 2014 so effortlessly. I took a deep breath, quickly trying to process the cocktail of irrational feelings that Satan himself had thrown in my face. Before I could wrangle myself back to earth, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Listen, you’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.” He replied, “Can I still wear the pants?”