Well. It finally happened. I finally ripped my pants. It started on Christmas when not one pair of the usually reliable 34x32’s that I got as gifts would button. Weird, I thought to myself. I justified it as the brands ran smaller or the more likely scenario that I’d eaten a lot before I tried anything on. Afterall, my “food babies” are legendary. Then, at work on Wednesday, as I was walking down the stairs, Eileen, the sweet heart who sits in the next cube over and bring my candy pointed out, “Eric, I think your pants ripped.” Shock. Awe. Mild embarrassment. These were nice pants too. A regular in the rotation.
I arrived home, went to pick up the kitten and **rip** went the pants, through the ass and down the leg. The pants were done. Oh well.
But I realized something this morning. A large rump is the sign of a magnificent athelte. My waist hasn’t gotten any bigger, afterall, my 34’s still actually fit. But take a look around. Find the best athletes and all of them have bodacious booty’s.
Larry Fitzgerald: bootylicious. Jose Reyes and Albert Pujols: stacked in the back. Carmelo Anthony: built like a brick house.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with having a butt that you can set your drink on. It just means that you’ve been giving your posterior chain some much needed love. What this means for me: I’m doing something right and no more “slim-fit” jeans. BFD.
Editors Note: I was eating a chipwich while writing that post
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