I’ve gained weight. Which totally sucks. I hate gaining weight. But I’ve got a useless lump of coal where my thyroid should be and I’m a workaholic with poor self-care so inevitably every few years I plump up and have 30 lbs to battle back. Unless it’s a year I get pregnant in which case I have 100 lbs to battle back, but heaven forbid I ever break a deuce again. I wasn’t built to pack that much poundage. I disappear into my own fat folds. If not physically, then emotionally. Weight is a bitch.
As soon as I gain out of my “hot zone” (or, the weight range at which I feel passably hot by my own arbitrary standards) I tend to punish myself by cutting off all clothing purchases. I know this is stupid, because wearing clothes that are too tight is hardly making me feel more comfortable in my own skin (or look more comfortable, for that matter — stuffed sausage anyone?) but perhaps more terrible in my body image addled mind would be to purchase clothes in the proper size thereby committing myself to being “fat”.
I put fat in quotes because we all have our own definition of that word, and as a die-hard body dysmorphic, for me that can range anywhere from 5-95 lbs overweight. Size 6 or 16 — no matter. Once I pass out of the hot zone I hate what I see either way. And the hot zone can’t be defined by a physical size because it’s clearly mental. It may also be worth noting that this phenomenon exists at the low end of the scale as well. The one time in my adult life I was considerably underweight, I hated my appearance just as much. My vanity and self-deprecation know no mercy.
A few weeks ago I saw this chambray jumpsuit I really wanted (thank Moses for jumpsuits — feel like pajamas, look like evening wear) and didn’t buy it because the size on the tag didn’t please me and my closet practically needs those size tag things they use at TJ Maxx as it is. Now I wish I had bought it so I could get lost in it and I can’t find it again. The thing about carrying extra weight is it makes me want to wear mumus. Not because I think I’m hiding the pounds I’m packing, but because it’s just so damn uncomfortable when your pants create a seam in your body. And also tight clothes put you at risk for a front-butt. It’s horrendous, and especially likely to occur when carrying a toddler who uses your spare tire as a seat. You know what I’m talking about. Or if you’re lucky, you don’t.
And so my mind goes round and round like that until I decide to take control of things. Until the birthdays pass and the excuses wane and the wedding that I was absolutely going to be in shape for comes and goes. Is today the day I cut the yo-yo string? Will there ever be that day? I hope. I’ll try.
Somewhat unrelated, I’m pretty sure these are the fiercest shoes I’ve ever seen. Actually I guess that’s pretty related. Shoes are kind of the ultimate accessory, aren’t they? A great pair looks good on everyone, at every size. And they’ll still fit next spring. Hallelujah.
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