The original purpose of the trip was to find a birthday present for my big sister, but I knew that was only part of her mission. Though my mom thinks she's super subtle, the comments about taking more pride in my appearance and how worn out my current wardrobe looks did not go unnoticed, and I knew I'd be in for a bit of a shopping trip myself. Since gaining my weight I have not shopped. The clothes I'm wearing now are from 50 pounds ago, and I've been okay with that. I don't want to know what size I am. I'd rather go around knowing my clothes didn't quite fit than succumb to purchasing clothes in a bigger size. My clothes are the one vestige of my previous normal-sized life, and to acknowledge that they don't fit and I really truly can't wear them anymore is to truly admit that's not my life anymore. And I didn't think I was ready to give that up.
To make a long and boring shopping story short...I was right. I was not ready. Trying on jeans was pure torture. "Why don't we start with the biggest size?" my mom suggested. "That way, it can only get better." I knew she meant it as a joke, but my mind raced - what if I didn't fit into the biggest size of jeans? I held them in front of me. They looked like they took up my entire body. Luckily, a saleswoman must have seen the panic on my face and suggested another cut and size of the jeans. A decidedly bigger than my last size, but still not enough to make me want to throw up - size 18. I grabbed them, as well as a few larger tops, and settled down in the fitting room.
There is no worse place in the world to a fat kid than the dressing room. The harsh lighting, the 360 mirrors, and clothes. Ugh. I disrobed quickly, trying not to notice the stretch marks marring my body, and shimmied into the pair of jeans. They were snug, but they zipped up, so I said they were fine. But about three shirts in (each one of which got an, "Oh my god you look amazing!" from my mom), I thought I was going to pass out. The jeans were too tight around my stomach. Oh god. I'd have to go up to a size 20.
20. The number rolled around in my head. I'd just watched Amy Schumer's bit on the Ellen Show about how at a size 6 she felt obscenely overweight walking through LA. My size would be 8 sizes bigger than that. I broke into a cold sweat, and the fluorescent lights stung my eyes. "I need a bigger size. And we need to do this fast before I have a panic attack," I blurted out. My mom looked stunned, but quickly went to grab the bigger pair for me.
Alone in my underwear, I sank onto the cushioned bench in the dressing room, trying to hold back my tears. I did my panic attack breathing. In for five, hold for seven, exhale for eight. And again. I kept my eyes down, not willing to look at the rolls that had formed while sitting, afraid it would set me off again.
I managed to make it out of the store about three minutes after trying on the 20s. The pair felt extra heavy in my bag, and I was ready to head home.
Today, I was not ready to wear the jeans. Though they're in my possession, I'm not sure I ever will be. I'm glad Nordstrom has a great return policy because I honestly don't know if I will ever feel okay putting them on. I know a size means nothing. It's a totally arbitrary number, and I'm already well on my path to a different life - so why don't I just wear the fucking jeans, no matter what size they are? It's not like anyone besides the people who just read this post will even know? But it means something to me. I put on one of my new shirts in an attempt to feel okay, but I still felt like a blob in my outfit. I knew a lot of that was due to still being unable to workout, so I made myself a healthy breakfast and forced myself to let it go.
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| Breakfast: 1/2 cup steel cut oats, 1/2 cup skim milk, 2 tbs natural peanut butter, and 1/2 chopped pink lady apple |
I was excited for my day. Though my mom and I had originally planned to go see a matinee on Broadway, I felt like if I had been in the audience and someone came in with a hacking cough they couldn't control, I'd try to cut a bitch. So, we regrouped. Something we loved to do when I was younger was pick a random location and go on an adventure--get lost and wander around. We picked a small coastal town in CT, Niantic, which was named one of the most charming towns. After a two hour drive, we were expecting a Stars Hollow-esque experience, but were thoroughly let down to find out there were about two restaurants, neither of which had anything but fried fish available, a book store, a coffee store, and a boutique. Disappointed, we continued to travel onwards and unintentionally upwards. And by the time we realized we were incredibly lost in bumblefuck CT, we were both uncomfortable, burgeoning on hungry, and had to pee badly.
Our pee break was taken care of immediately, but the other two had to wait a while. We searched and searched and searched for somewhere to stop for lunch, but the longer we wandered and couldn't find something, the closer to dinner time it became. My bra started to dig uncomfortably into my ribs, and I knew my cough was wearing on my mom. Between the two of us, we were grumpy and grumpier. Finally, we made it back to our home base and drove through towns we were more familiar with. We agreed on a seafood restaurant, since that's what my mom had been craving earlier, and sat down ravenous.
Now, if my sister had planned this vacation, we would have known exactly what restaurant we were eating at about a week ago, but she didn't, and I didn't. So, looking through the menu, starved and cranky and annoyed with my bra was not the best plan in the world. Steak au poivre, fish in a beurre blanc sauce, and mac and cheese all popped out at me. I hadn't eaten anything since noon, and this was just after six, I said to myself. I could have a more decadent dinner, right? But the pain in my ribs from my too tight bra reminded me otherwise. And instead I focused on what would be the most healthy dinner on the menu that I'd still enjoy. Roasted chicken with roasted seasonal veggies (as a substitution for mashed potatoes) was my best bet, and I felt like I was treating myself with a pretty large glass of Malbec.
Satiated and back in the car, I realized what a victory that was. It was small, but it was a positive decision that I made all by myself. And despite my negative mindset the past day, I'm still sticking to my goals. I know there will be more bad days to come, but I'm proud of myself for pulling myself out of this one. Because, as always, I'm going to keep doing this.
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