Hiding My Shame in the Nick of Time

I have now lost close to 20 pounds. It's an accomplishment to be sure, but last night it almost cost me my dignity.

I like jeans. They are all I wear -- and I like them slightly baggy. After a 20 pound weight loss, that means they are VERY baggy. Like 16 year old wanna be white boy rapper baggy. Really, all I need are shamrock boxers, a tank top, and a sideways cap and I could be "DJ Only Wearing This To Piss Off My Dad Until He Makes Me Go to College." I mean, except for my boobs. And the toddler. And the fact I'm 36.

I should buy new pants, I know, but I don't want to. First of all, there is the fact I still have 20 pounds to lose. I don't want to have "fat, medium, and normal" pants. I don't want to buy every size Old Navy has to offer. Also, I kind of like the fact my pants are so big. They show I've done something, and that I am winning the battle of the bulge. I feel like one of those people who hold up their enormous pants on infomercials and smile.

I wasn't smiling last night though.

I was coming home from book club, and my hands were totally full. I had Meg on my hip and a hand under her butt. I had her diaper bag and my purse over one shoulder, and I had a shopping bag of toys I had taken to entertain Meg during book club over the other. I had a box of wine we had ended up not needing (lightweights), tucked under the arm that wasn't supporting Meg. Oh, and I had to reach for my house keys.

I was about half way up the front walk when I felt my pants start to slip. I felt only slight panic, and just widened my gait, hoping that would fix the problem. It did not. They slipped further, and now seemed to be picking up steam. I thought about setting down Meg, or the box of wine, but then realized that would end in the crumbling of the magnificent pyramid of stuff I had built upon myself; and that I would probably just camping, drunk, in the yard.

I had to make a run for it.

With every step I took I felt my pants going lower and lower. They slipped to the top of my butt. I wished for the millionth time in my life I didn't have a flat Irish ass. They slipped to mid-crack. I knew I was in trouble. I got to the door and thrust my hips forward "Solid Gold" style, hoping that would buy me time until I fumbled with my keys and opened the door. It was a desperation move, but it worked. It bought me just the seconds I needed to flip the lock. My pants fell, exposing the back of my gray granny panties and my white chicken thighs, just as I stepped inside and the screen door swung closed.

Meg burst into hysterics. She thought it was the funniest thing ever.

Now, it is true that my dignity may have not been totally saved. I have neighbors across the street, and they have windows; and screen doors are far from solid. However, I like to think I was victorious, and that I saved anyone living near us from having nightmares about my butt. They never would have been able to eat pancakes again.

Maybe I should buy a belt.

Nah. I would ruin my street cred.