You ever own a pair of pants? Yes
That you freaking LOVE?! Yes.
Only to find that said pants you are loving…
Don’t love you back? OMG YES.
Well, this is my black pleather pants I bought last year. Wait. They are gorgeous. Hold on. They are high waisted. Pleather? Oh! Yes, they are plastic leather. Huh? Meaning, they look like some kind of leather; but they aren’t.
Ah! Got it… Carry on.
Anyway, they are skinny style in the leg. And therein lay the problem. My legs aren’t playing nice with the damn stretchy plastic. Oooo, nasty visual there. Right! Â My thighs fight them when they’re pulled up. My hips are pushing them off. The waistband has this massive extra space that I could smuggle a large book in between the fabric where my stomach should be. My inner squish is slapping together when I walk, causing an annoying squeaking sound. They’re not even patent leather! How the hell are they squeaking?!
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You see, last year, when I got them, they fit amazingly.  So much so, that I wanted to wear those damn pants  every day! You so would. I totally would.  But let’s face it, you can’t wear leather pants to church, or to the gym, or an animal park. An animal park? Well, maybe I could. And maybe you’d look like a solid, tasty lunch for a predator. Okay. Not the zoo then. While, my weight has toggled a bit this last six-eight months, my physical appearance hasn’t been too gnarly.
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SIDEBAR: this has also been a point of contention for me too. So much so, I had to add a weight loss goal to my annual goal setting resolutions this new year. So sad about that.
Ish, happens. *shrugs
Moving on, I’ve also washed these pleggings a couple times and I’m wondering if the shape of the pants themselves had been altered due to that. *fingers crossed, please. Please. Please. Please.
Damn those household chores all to hell. Especially you, laundry. Boo to you. Boo!
And so it begins… the tale of the plastic leather, pleather pleggings. Here’s the plan. I am going to try them on again in February. Oh no, not another plan. Lord help us all if these bastards don’t fit. I’ve been hitting the gym 6 days a week, living on dry toast and rice, and drinking enough water for a buffalo herd.
Which is about the size I’m feeling about now. So it’s fitting!
No, it’s not fitting. The mock-trousers aren’t fitting at all. That’s the problem!
You’ll show them.
No britches are going to beat me. That’s right. *nods in affirmation
Go get ’em, sausage girl!
