A painful break-up

Dearest beloved black workout pants,

I don't know quite how to say this, so I'm just going to come out with it. I have come to a difficult decision about our relationship. I just don't think it's good for us to go out anymore.

We've had some great times over the years, and you have stuck to with me through thick and thin (thighs).

I still remember when we first hooked up. It was late 1994. I was in my first semester of college and was working at Express. The uppity wenches with whom I worked made me spend some of my hard-earned money on you, and this horrid oversized red sweatshirt to wear during the holidays.

I didn't much care for you at first. You were, after all, not my type. I was still lingering in my grunge phase, and black leggings definitely didn't scream "Seattle."

Somehow, though, you managed to stay in my wardrobe, even long after that red sweatshirt had been sent on its way.

You were there throughout my college years, and as I graduated, found my first job, got engaged and got married. You were there with me when, after marriage, I learned how to cook and gained 20 pounds, and you were there as I worked to lose it. You were there when I got pregnant and you supported my growing belly as long as you could, as I puffed away on the elliptical and onlookers stared at the pregnant chick who was still actually working out. Then, I had to banish you to the drawer in favor of some super extra-large men's shorts. Sorry about that.

You have patiently waited out the warm summer months in the top drawer of my dresser, and every fall you're there waiting. I slip you on and you look as flattering as always.

I don't know what it was about you. Whether it was your stretchy fabric or your boot-cut legs, but we always seemed to make a good couple, no matter how many extra pounds I was carrying. You made me look better. You stretched out the lumps and helped hold in the belly. You were slimming, flattering, as I sweated my way through workout after workout.

But lately, I don't know, things aren't quite the same. I guess I have to admit I've noticed some rather sizeable holes in your crotch personality, and I just don't think they are fixable. Our relationship seems to be literally coming apart at the seams. I am sort of embarrassed to be seen with you in public anymore. I feel so exposed and vulnerable.

So, dear pants, I think the time has come to find a replacement for you. I know it won't be easy. I hate to even think about going through the process of finding someone to take your place. I just know it will be difficult, if not impossible, to find someone to measure up to your standards. But I have to try.

Please try to understand, I cherish the FIFTEEN years we had together and I'm so sorry it had to come to this. You have been with me for almost half my life!

Maybe sometime we could meet up for a nice relaxing day on the couch or for some yard work or something, but I'm sorry, the public relationship has to go.

Thanks so much for everything you've done for me.

Love,
Krystal