Woody Cavenaugh

It was a scant few months ago that I managed to buy a couple pairs of low rise jeans, they were perfect more or less. I could wear them where I've always keep my waist and my crotch falls at my crotch and not half-way down my thigh.

These details are important when you are a fencing coach with massive thighs and really surprisingly short legs. The only thing they weren't good for was walking or teaching fencing. For working in the office, sitting in a chair, driving down the street, or dining in a restaurant they were perfect. The thing with me and walking is that the longer I walk the more oxygen enriched blood goes into legs and the tighter these pants become in my legs until they look like a masochist idea of tights.

But that's OK. I've got my other pants. My other pants are plenty lose in the legs but unfortunately are cut for someone who wears their waist about six inches higher than I do. In fact, if you were to go look at a sizing chart they would suggest that where I keep my waist is about six inches lower than it is supposed to be. Sizing charts, HA! So funny.

I'd made my peace with it all and life was good, I chose pants based on the activity of the day and they seldom let me down. If for some reason they DID let me down, I've got my emergency pants in my office that I can fall back on. Check and mate.

Then my world went spiraling into the absurd. I'd always heard that when there is a baby on the way there would be some "Eating for two". I had always assumed they were referring to the mom. During the first trimester my lovely bride lost nine pounds. Well, she says she "lost", but I know exactly where they are. They aren't lost at all, I've got them right here...in my pants. Or more precisely, just over my pants.

Sara had real trouble with nausea during that first trimester and doing my brave duty as Father-to-be-Man I swooped in for the rescue.
"What's the matter honey, your dinner not setting well? Don't worry, I'll save the day!" Twelve weeks of eating my food and hers too and suddenly things are getting a little out of sorts. Undaunted our hero devises a new plan,
"What's the matter honey, your dinner not setting well? Don't worry, we'll get a box!"
By twenty weeks I discovered that the phrase "get a box" translates into "Husband will eat it later."

And here we are at week twenty three. My skinny jeans are in a box, and I've unpacked my fat jeans. Yesterday at the OB's office Sara had gained a pound in the past two weeks, Father-to-be-Man packed on five. Those maternity pants are starting to look like a good idea. I mean, I've always carried my weight in just one place which happens to be where a baby would incubate on a woman. Who would notice right? I'd lose the ability to tuck in my shirts, but lets face reality here, there's no room in my pants for shirt tails anyway. Summer's coming, I can pull off the relaxed out of the pants look.

Yesterday I put on my largest pants, those pants that were in a box slated to go to Goodwill. These pants are the last line of defense between my underwear and an unsuspecting world. It took ten minutes, and a hand cramp to get them buttoned. An hour and a half later I realized that I was so tired from trying to get them on that I had completely forgotten to zip them.

Swell.

An hour after that I had to go to the men's room. You know, number two. Now I'm trapped in a tiny stall trying to get my pants buttoned up. By the time I managed to achieve this high minded goal I had two hand cramps, I was soaked in sweat, my face was red and more than one men's room patron suggestion that maybe I should get a room. It was about an hour later that I realized that I was so out of sorts from the battle of the button I had forgotten to zip my pants.

Swell.

I blame genetics and the knowledge that food taste good. Genetics purpose built me so I could move heavy things. A car, uphill, onto a trailer. I'm your man. Short powerful legs give me leverage to get low on something and power it up. Up-sized rib cage has more surface area to attach chest muscles too. Extra long torso gives me plenty of room for abs. All of my body fat stored in my stomach area-- Well, I'm not sure what they were thinking when they did that one, unless they knew that I was going to spend a lot of time in my adult hood living in the country out working in the yard naked as the day I was born. Yeah, that's probably it. They knew that was going to happen so they put all my extra weight in the front to protect my junk from sunburn.

Of course, its impossible for me to really verify this. I haven't seen my junk since high school. So here I am with a 29 inseam, 42, 44, maybe a 46 waist wearing extra tall shirts to cover me over the up and down and 3X to cover me in the around. Maternity clothing might not be too bad an idea after all. Its time to do some research! We've been wearing cloths for thousands of years, surely in all of fashion history there was a period of clothing that would suit my rather utilitarian build. The toga comes quickly to mind, as does the kilt, but the answer may in fact come from my taste in Steampunk.

There was a period in fashion where men wore pants six inches above where I wear mine and rather than being held in place with a belt (which wont work because of that whole breathing thing) are held in place with suspenders. I'm wearing the vest and cap already, it may be time to suck it up and embrace the breeches and braces as well. It is time to tap my inner gentleman. Only I'll never word it like that again, my hand to god.

Seriously. I promise I'll never say that phrase again.