pointing fingers

So here we are.

I am so angry at my pants. They have rebelled for some unknown reason and refuse to do what pants should do.

Gotta blame someone. That’s what we do, right? When we get bad news, or something goes awry or amiss... we point the finger at someone or something else. Because it can’t possibly be my fault. 

It had to be the Ronnybrook egg nog. When a beverage is the consistency of face cream, you just know that there’s going to be a price paid down the road. It just leapt into that glass and begged me to drink it. Begged. And during the holidays, what sort of inhumane monster would I be to deny the needy? 

Or maybe it was the cookies. Those little bastards. They cornered me in that dark alley and told me we were going to go get a salad. Suffice it to say, you cannot trust cookies. 

Nor can you trust hot chocolate that is actually molten pudding in disguise... and it’s not like you can stop imbibing when you realize the truth about it. 

Of course, candy is also a possible culprit. How dare it go on sale. How dare it!

And then there were all those lovely dinners that looked a lot smaller when they were illuminated only by candlelight and a Christmas tree. Plus, I always assumed that food you couldn’t see didn’t actually count. Not to mention that when butter melts into that hot roll, it seems to disappear... wreaking havoc on the thighs of a distracted diner.

You know who’s looking pretty durned guilty right now? Tradition. The tradition of warm cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning and New Year’s Day. The tradition of ordering chocolate covered pretzels from home every December. The tradition of saying, what the hell? It’s the holidays! And later, rats, the holidays are over and it’s cold and dark and I require cake. 

In the end (heaven help me if I insert no pun intended here), I am choosing to blame the pants themselves. Bad, bad pants. They don’t deserve to be worn for a while. That’ll teach ‘em. 

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.