Dear Fleece/sweat pants,

You are so warm and cozy. You wait for me every day. I come home and put you on and I am instantly more comfortable. Oh, how I love you. You come in a wide variety of colors and are so soft. Did I mention I love you?

But, oh, how you trick me. You make me think that everything is ok. That it won't hurt to eat that "little" extra bit of ice cream. You'll stretch and make more room for me. Eat another piece of chocolate...it will be fine...you'll still fit me. I listen to your soft and soothing voice and give in. "You're right!", I think, "This little bit extra and that little bit more won't hurt me at all! After all, I shoveled A LOT last week! I deserve a little treat (or two, or three, or....).

Now, dear fleece/sweat pants, I must go back to work. I can't wear you to work, although I would LOVE to. I must wear your dressier cousin, the WORK pant. The work pant is no where near as forgiving as you are. It taunts me as I attempt to wrestle the zipper up. "Surely I haven't eaten THAT much more! The fleece/sweat pants told me it was ok! THEY still fit me!" The work pant mocks me as I try to make the button and the button hole meet. It makes fun of me for listening to you fleece/sweat pants.

I must not listen to you anymore. I will still wear you for your comfort at the end of a long day, but I can no longer let you beguile me into thinking that all those extra bites will magically disappear and I won't be affected by them. I am covering my ears and singing every song I know to block out your siren song. You will not win, fleece/sweat pant. You will NOT win.

Sincerely,
me