Welp, it happened. I outfatted all my pants.
So many things converged all at once to make this happen. A year of living with a dude who ate like a frat boy, and the stress of that dude and his disorder, and the stress of having my work life fall apart due to the stress of that dude and his disorder, and the evicting of the dude and his unfathomable mess, and the cat dying, and my house in shambles.... yeah, I decided to eat whatever the hell I wanted as a band-aid. Boy, it shows. I'm back up around 190 pounds. 25 pounds! BOOOOO.
Don't get me wrong, kids, I am not about the body-shaming here. I like the skinny, I like the chub, I like the pear shaped and apple shaped and hourglass shaped and the ruler shaped. I like all y'all. I'm not even particularly unhappy with the shape of me right now. I'm just 10 pounds over the weight limit of any of my pants.
I hate pants shopping. I hate it with the heat of a thousand dying suns (thanks, The Oatmeal). I am just shy of six feet tall, and weirdly proportioned. Big ole ironing board ass, no waist to speak of, beer gut, disproportionately long legs....
The pain of changing my eating habits (which is a substantial amount of pain) is less than the pain of trying to find pants that fit.
I gaze into a bowl of kale and spaghetti squash covered in marinara, instead of glorious pasta covered in something involving cheese. I gaze at the pile of dishes in the kitchen that has been created from cooking all this vegetable shit.
Oh well. I like vegetables. Not super fond of maintenance cooking, but what the hell.
It beats buying pants.