true tales of fatness and woe

Often, my jeans receive compliments.
"Those are nice jeans."
"Thank you," I say.
"Where did you get them?"
"Some resale shop."
"Wow, what a great buy."
"Yes," I reply, "they are all I wear."
What I do not say in polite company is that, these days, (only six weeks into the school year) they are all I can wear. My other pants strain at the seams. Merely walking across my classroom might be enough to cause my hips to burst forth from the fabric. It would be like watching a baby whale emerge from the womb--my hips being the whale and my pants being the womb, of course.
Of course.
My second-hand Miss Sixties are indeed "nice." Somehow, they manage to run sensory interference between how my thighs appear and what my thighs are. I dwell thankfully behind the illusion.

My jeans: I hail thee. May there be many a pair like thee, and may it be my fortune to procure every last pair.