The Yo-Yo Sisterhood

Given: I've lost 56.60 pounds as of this morning and now weigh 194.50, and

Given: I am now 3.5 pounds away from my pre-pregnancy weight of 191.0, and so am also 3.5 pounds away from being truly post-partum now that my son is 4 yrs and 5 months old, and

Given: I am still on my quest to buy no-stretch jeans, a search that appears about as likely to succeed as my housekeepers burning a calorie and actually cleaning the bathroom, insead of simply pushing the dirt around to the corners,

Therefore, prove:
I have increased my clothing tightness tolerance into the riduculous.

When I was heavy, everything was tight, and so therefore, nothing was tight. Though it humiliated me to buy clothes in yet-another-size-larger, I did it. I did it only when I'd lost circulation in the offended body part, and I paid in cash so the Great Data Collectors would not ever discover that I was a card-carrying (as it were) Fat Girl, but I made the purchases.

Oh sure, I'd go through this whole, 'I'm not buying clothes any larger and giving my body a reason to grow into them' bullcrap. I even tried the, 'hey, if I'm uncomfortable because my clothes are tight, that will motivate me to lose weight.' Didn’t work. I climbed from a 10 all the way to a 20W with that logic, so you see how well I handled discomfort on the road upward.

Once, during my heaviest days, I wore a pair of size 20W stretch jeans to work. I'd made a critical error the last time I'd washed them and put them in the dryer, and on high at that. I only dry things on high: it seems a waste of the dryer to use those lower settings. As a result, none of my clothes exist in their original size and shape, but still, nothing loses a whole size. I figure that I had owned those 20W-s long enough that they were actually a size 19 (none such beast exists), and I was PMSing, so I was carrying 3 pounds of water in my abdomen, my biggest problem area, and that water was doing its best to display itself between my pubic bone and my beltline, pressing outward until I could feel the zipper tines against my bare skin. Yep, that’s right: I go commando. Sorry mistake on that day, let me tell you, but there was no way my pants would have closed if I had worn even the thinnest of unders.

After a lunch of fish & chips at the English pub, Elephant & Castle, my jeans had cut their initials into my tummy, and my uterus cramped in protest. “Gimme some room or I’m gonna blow,” it seemed to yell. Reeling from my food coma and the cigarette smoke from my 2 dining companions, I retreated to the ladies room, untucked my shirt from my pants, and then, praying there would be no reason for me to get out of my chair the rest of the afternoon, I unbuttoned my jeans.

It helped-a little. It helped too that I squirmed so much that afternoon that my pants had come practically unzipped by the time I shut down my computer for the day. I didn’t realize this until I stood up to leave and there was distinctly more room in my pants than there had been earlier. Facing away from my 3 (male) officemates, I discretely pulled my zipper back into place. I tried to reinstate the button, but my abdomen was having none of that, and anyway, by the time I’d snuck the zipper back up north, 2 of my 3 room-pals had turned and were staring at me, wondering what I’d found so rapt out the windows. I clamped my hand over my stomach without a word of explanation, grabbed my backpack and trucked out of there.

That night, I got my period and the pressure on the 20W-s eased enough that I could wear them again. I stopped drying them, I started sliding them on while damp so I could stretch them out a little more, and I could walk again, but I acquiesced to the inevitable. Before my next period, when the Tsunami hit my innards, I would go out, wearing a mask to protect my fragile ego, and buy size 22W.

My DS and then-DH conspired to fill my weekends for a month, and so I never made it out. I never owned a 22W, though clearly I was that size. I simply gutted it out, somehow managing to keep my weight level even so that I wouldn’t have to suffer this one extra insult. I discovered during this period that the longer I wore the jeans, the “better” they fit. My algorithm looked something like this:

1^st wearing: suck it in while tugging on; try to move around a lot before forced to sit for first time

2^nd wearing: easier on, a bit of room in the stomach; pants no longer sticking to calves after sitting

3^rd wearing: Hey, these are getting loose! Maybe I’m ready for a smaller size…

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Ever since I slithered into my size 14W-stretch at 215-ish pounds, I’ve been in love with tight clothes. Even when they’re distinctly unflattering (as these were then), I will prance around, twisting to see every angle, estimating when I can wear them out, or how long it will be before they get relegated to the Donate pile. Well, I suppose “prance” is a liberal term. What I really mean is that I walk around as if there are bed slats stuffed into my pant legs, because the material is too tight to permit real motion. But I don’t care. Even as my feet turn blue from oxygen deprivation, I preen and grin and dance about, bed slats still in place.

My algorithm differs now. I have 6 levels of ‘fit’ with my clothes, particularly my jeans. Any woman with a fluctuating weight will recognize this--and that’s all of us. Admit it girls; we’re all in this together. Power to the Yo-Yo Sisterhood! So, many of you likely have a similar scale of Acceptable Tightness in clothing. Mine looks like this:

Stage 1: Can get up over hips but cannot zip up, and forget about buttoning. Belly looks like trapped octopus fighting with jellyfish in the mouth of a gold-toothed shark.

Stage 2: Zipped and (maybe) buttoned, this done lying down while holding breath and staring at ceiling. Advanced Stage 2 Yo-Yos may attempt to sit and/or stand. Caution: contents under pressure! Do not attempt to squat or bend over in Stage 2!

Stage 3: Zipped and buttoned while standing, movement permitted (be sure to insert bed slats first). Advanced Yo-Yos may squat or bend. Attempt stairs or car entry/exit with extreme caution. Have loose, long-fitting shirt at the ready in case you wish to venture out.

Stage 4: Fitting, except perhaps in problem areas. If immediately post-period, problem areas vanish by end of 1^st wearing. Okay, 2^nd wearing.

Stage 5: Loose in best areas. Time to circulate next size down into Stage 1, or, for the Advanced, Stage 2.

Stage 6: Starting to sag in problem areas, even when dried on high. Chuck jeans for next size down. Grab that long, loose-fitting shirt, and

Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

This morning, I decided to try on a pair of my size 12 NS (no-stretch). I was sagging a little in my 14-s, but not enough to merit a trip to the store. I got my period on Thursday and am waiting for the water to shrink the octopus, so I can get a realistic view of what stage the 14-ns are for me. Last month, I got the 12 to Stage 1-barely. They came past my hipbones, but both sides of the fly were flapping and the seams screamed for relief. I figured I’d have them at Stage 1, or maybe get part of the zipper up. I could haul myself up off the bed (of course I couldn’t zip them while standing!) and check to see if I had a shot at Stage 2 before my next cycle. Well, not today.

Stage 3!

It took some colossal, professional-level Stuffing the Octopus, but I got them zipped and buttoned while standing, and, while I admit they cinch my waist a la a corset tightlacer’s dream, they are ON, baby! Today I’m wearing a pair of Sweeter by the Dozen, Pre-Pregnancy, Don’t Stretch on Me size 12 jeans.

In reality, I’m a size 14, but that’s Misses-no stretch. I’m a 14, and, with long shirt in tow, I’m a 12. I have the whole of the stitching pattern tattooed on my legs, and the octopus is heaving from the restraints today, but I wore them out, and even had lunch in them. I’m a 12, folks. TWELVE!!!

Well, maybe a 13, though no such beast exists. But today, and for the only time in my post-fat girl life, I’m proud to label myself the same as a big bag of doughnuts.

A, size B(aker’s Dozen)

Tightness tolerance increased to the ridiculous: Proven.