Along with the realization this morning that I was going to have to spend half and hour scraping the snow and other winter detritus off my car that had accumulated overnight, I also realized: crap. I was going to have to go clothes shopping.

I've never been a fan of clothes shopping, my motto basically being: get in, get out, get done. There's a reason I have such brand loyalty- it's so much easier to find pants that fit. I'll "explore" with shirts, but it's the standard pants for me.

Now, with weight restoration (i.e., weight gain and every anorexic on the face of this planet knows the meaning of the euphemism so why bother?), I understood at least tacitly, that I was going to outgrow my sick pants. You know, the jeans with which you measure your worth, the ones that, if droopy at the waist, means you have been a good girl.

Those jeans are now suction-cupped to my ass. I can hardly breathe. I feel like a complete hippo.

Of course, all of the other women at work are going clothes shopping, but for the opposite reason: their pants are too big.

That makes me feel like I've been the quarterback for the losing team in the Superbowl, and not wearing any protective gear. Why oh why do they have to be doing their damn contest NOW? Couldn't they wait (ha!) until I inched my way out the door?

But that would mean life would be fair and recovery would be easy (easi-er, at any rate).

There is nothing I am dreading more than walking into a dressing room and not knowing what size to request. Not all that long ago, I just asked for the smallest one and hoped it wouldn't fall off. Now I feel I need to go into the maternity section to find something that will fit my cellulite-laden frame. I feel like my weight is shooting through the roof. I have either been losing or maintaining for the past 3 years, and the concept of gaining really has me antsy.

Losing weight is good and gaining is evil. That's all there is to it. Every female in America (and probably a good portion of the men) know it in their bones. We have, thankfully, passed the "New Year's Resolution" diet phase. Now, however, we are about to embark on the next great yearly landmark in dieting: the bathing suit.

I always wore t-shirts over my bathing suits because, well, let's just say I go from girl to lobster in under 15 minutes. That had more to do with practicality than style. I have worn a bathing suit about three times in the past five years. I am not looking forward to this prospect. I am not looking forward to making peace with the fact that the size of my jeans may contain two numbers, both of which are not zero. I do not like this and I am more than willing to share it.

But is it that I don't fit the pants, or that the pants just don't fit ME? "Oh I'm too fat for these pants!" we lament, staring at our butts and thighs in the three-way mirror. I have to remind myself- dude. They're pants. Do I really want a piece of fabric to have this much control over my life?

So, when I brave the malls this weekend, I will find pants that fit ME, that are perfectly me-sized. I refuse to waste any more time trying to make myself fit my pants.