Archive for March, 2012|Monthly archive page

It’s that time of year again…or is it?

(…well, actually it’s about three months too soon, given where I live, but it is what it is.)

It’s been 80 degrees the last three days and that really means no more living in layers. It’s time to set the sweaters, the fleece, the long sleeved shirts, the tights, the wool socks, and, yes, even the jeans aaide and to move on to lighter and brighter options.

With some trepidation, I pulled out my spring/summer clothes (summer in my neck of the woods rarely surpasses 70, mind you) and started trying things on. Unfortunately, and was as suspected, there were more things in the “discard” pile (or the “maybe in a few weeks” pile) than there were in the “eligible candidates for office wear” pile.

Even the casual pants and shorts were too tight here or pulled funny there. (Though, in the moment, there was nothing funny about it.)

I pulled out my Prana shorts that I bought two years ago in Santa Monica (the ones that, at the time, were too big and my then partner, now husband, would tease me for walking around about to drop my britches).

They barely fit.

Skirts that were loose fit, but only with a bulge that seemed to only be highlighted in t-shirts or tops that looked like (but probably hadn’t) been shrunk in the wash.

Well, fuck.

I knew that my body wasn’t the same as she had been the year that I bought most of those clothes – you know, the one where I went on fasts and cleanses like they were going out of style. 10 days of limeade here, followed by a liver detox cleanse, followed by no sugar (no matter what the form).

I knew that my body wasn’t the same even as she was right before my thyroid crashed the year before last or even as was five months ago before said thyroid had crashed yet again. And I can honestly say that I would be okay with that, if only I had clothes that fit instead of clothes that made me look a walking kielbasa.

As I stood in the mirror, I could literally feel my state starting to crumble – to take that first and all too familiar step down the slippery slope of hell (that would be self-judgment, self-hatred, self-disgust, self-pity…you get the picture). But then I just decided: enough is enough.

This is where you are, right now.

If you don’t have clothes that fit, go get some.

If you happen to see a bag of chocolate somewhere today, just keep walking. It has nothing to do with you and it will not make you feel better nor will it make your clothes fit better.

I reminded myself that just last night I had looked in that same mirror, naked, and was struck by how sexy I looked with my curves and womanly proportions.

I remember joking, in a loving way (as opposed to the self-deprecating way that I had done in the past), that if I had been born a hundred years earlier, I would have been a goddess and that all of those women whose bodies that I covet would have been looking at me with awe and admiration.

What’s a little time travel between a woman and her body? What’s a little social construction of reality among friends.

My clothes don’t fit. Period.

Yes, part of me is saddened by that.

Yes, part of me is annoyed.

Yes, part of me wished that I had faced this sooner so that I wouldn’t feel so up against the wall right before I have to go stand in a room in front of 40 20-somethings twice a day, three times a week.

But for the most part, I’m actually okay with it. I’m not thrilled, but I am okay.

Because regardless of the size, I’m still the same woman I was 24 hours ago.

Heck, I’m the same woman I was 2 years ago who walked down the streets of Santa Monica in a pair of size 2 jeans.

Just as I am the same woman I was when I was 16 and weighed 232.5 pounds.

I may have learned a lot more, I may have grown as a person, but the essence, the beauty, and the creativity is the same.

And all of me would do well to remember that.