I wear the world like a pair of jeans bought off the last chance rack at Marshall’s. Almost, but not quite right. An inch or two cut off, a seam taken in a scootch; that’s all that I may do to alter them to fit.
Easier then, to fill the baggy saggy with Hershey Almond Kisses and peanut butter breakfasts glazed with lime curd. But length and thigh and seat and waist are never perfect, never right at the right times all together.
They are created by a society, a culture, a tradition, all suiting someone that they know. It’s then not the jeans that don’t suit well, that chafe or pool or pinch. It’s not the jeans that don’t fit me; it’s me that does not fit them.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology