Dear Size Two Khaki Pants:
You were a mind-fuck when I bought you. I was not a size two - I was a fatty, had always been and always would be. I tried a six, a four - both too big. How could it be that such a tiny number fit my enormous body? And yet you fit, you buttoned; I could sit down and you were comfortable. The fact that you were on sale made you even more comfortable.
Alas, Khaki Kants, I can no longer have you in my wardrobe. I have gained weight since that fateful day at New York & Company, and you are uncomfortably snug. It is possible that you shrank - the Size Two Black Pants I also purchased still fit fine - but the former scenario is equally likely.
Does this bother me? I'd be lying if I said it didn't. But it's really your loss, as you won't be accompanying me to Miami this weekend. My much older, Size-Unknown Khaki Pants will have that privilege.