All Four One

There’s nothing like a new size to curb the appetite.

That rule applies in both directions, by the way. During my ‘expansion’ years, I always had a little food volume cut-back whenever I endured the humiliation of going up a size. I did it all wrong, of course, starving myself through the day and then overindulging at night, so that even the new size clothes chewed at the octopus.

Now, though, every time I land in a new size, my enthusiasm for the weight loss invigorates and the pains of denial recede. For example, I’ve been battling that nasty chocolate-stash cabinet at work for over a week now, digging my painted nails into my arms, just to keep from sliding the drawer open and nabbing the first Snack Sized anything that leaped into my palm.

Well, okay, ‘leaped’ is stretching it. My hand scoops, and the action is distinctly backhoe-like when it comes to chocolate tasties. My wrist unhinges, swinging over the pile, surveying clumps of goodies, and then lowering into the fray, lifting up whatever the stretched claw can manage (sometimes with help from Backhoe #2), and hauling the treasure straight up to my mouth, sometimes not bothering to unwrap the loot beforehand.

Is it any wonder I was once a size 22?

Anyway, my PMS lasted almost the whole month this time, and the Fat Girl wanted some chocolate. I had to do this whole walk-around thing to keep away from it, sometimes doing the unthinkable and walking along the window, just to avoid that stash. It’s not technically a walkway, and I think somewhere in the unwritten-yet-understood Code of Cubicle Protocol, we peons are supposed to stick to the true path up front and not impinge on the coveted real estate by the window, where the Directors sit--those employees important enough to have conference tables at their workspace but not yet prestigious enough to have offices. Well, tough. I’m not getting fat just because some Almost An Executive has a problem with me walking behind him and catching him playing Free Cell during a conference call. Next time maybe you’ll take that call on the handset and NOT on the speakerphone, and then my attention won’t be drawn to you.

Anyway…

Last weekend, I got to jonesing for some new clothes. My size 12 pants are ridiculously loose, even for those who wear their pants at normal size (vs me, who wears everything tight), and some of my 10s are hanging in an unflattering way. I have a single pair of size 8 pants, besides my suit, but that’s not enough to shuffle in a 5-day workweek, no matter how many different button-down white blouses I have. Besides, I realized that I hadn’t rewarded myself for a specific weight loss goal in a while and I wanted to fill my closet with single-digit items.

I found this great pair of black jeans with a sequined fabric belt in a 6, and then another suit in an 8, though the skirt was weird, so I put it back. I couldn’t find any more dress clothes, so I went ahead and hunted for jeans. I found a fun pair with embroidered flowers on the back pockets, and when I slipped them on, they buttoned and zipped easily. In a 6. Intrigued, I asked Howard to find me a size 4. In a moment he returned with a pair of denims with legs the width of flag poles and some funky beading at the pocket. I brought them back to the dressing room, prepared to lie down on that nasty dust-bunny-encrusted tile, just to see if I could get them on.

The octopus, fueled by my PMS, fought like a gladiator, but I managed to stuff it down and even though it took me 5 tries to button the things, I got them on. Ralph Lauren size 4. I beamed and giggled and turned around in the dressing room until I got vertigo. Then I walked out to show Howard.

And that’s when I noticed that my ankles were showing. They were too short. Size 4 ‘average’, with a 32” inseam. Impeded by the octopus, the pants simply did not reach far enough down my leg to justify the purchase. I was crushed, but also elated: somewhere in the world, there existed a pair of size 4 jeans that fit me. Me! I don’t even ever remember being a size 4. I went straight from a juniors 9/10 to a Misses 10. Whatever time I spent as a 4, if any, was before I started noticing sizes. My first 4. I couldn’t keep it, much like my below-160 weight (still p!ssed about that, btw), but it did exist.

I spent the rest of the weekend on a four-hunt. Howard found a pair of Ralph’s at Costco. They looked really skinny, and they were 1% lycra instead of the 2% I had on at TJMaxx, but I figured I could get them nearly on, and then I could wear them post-period.

Not so much.

It turns out, these Ralph’s are ultra low rise, which is Faux Straight Guy in Boat Clothes code for ‘won’t go over the hips of women who have curves’. I couldn’t even get them to my hip bones. They just sat on my haunches, the zipper yawning open like an upturned backhoe, and begging to be set free. So those went into the catch-and-release program. I’ll see if Costco is a place one can return clothes, and maybe then I’ll learn my lesson that one cannot buy New Size items without first trying them on.

I tried 2 other TJMaxx stores, a Dress Barn, and Old Navy, but could not find a cooperative 4 anywhere. And speaking of uncooperative, how in the world does Old Navy sell anything? There wasn’t a thing on the racks I could get into. My best guess is that they still sell clothes in the 1980s size range: I mean, I picked up a size small sweater (my current size), and I couldn’t even figure out how I’d squeeze my arms into it, never mind the girls in the rooms ‘upstairs’. The only place I had any success was in the bathing suits, inexplicably, but even then, the size M bottoms were too large, and the size XL top was pasty-small. I might be okay wearing something like that to the Riviera, but I am most certainly not going to flaunt the DD twins in a set of barely-there-triangles while on vacation at Wozen’s parents.

I finished the weekend without a 4 in my closet, saddened, and wondering if I shouldn’t have just plucked the 4 average from the rack and made off with it. At least then I could have proven that I fit into a 4. I looked through my calendar, trying to find a way to get to the Premium Outlet Mall and sneak into a size 4L at Eddie Bauer over lunch, but this week is insanely busy, and so I let it go. They’ll be other 4s. Someday. Maybe.

Then today, I ran out to K-mart to get a bowling set for DS and a shirt for Howard (I’ll let him tell you about that himself), and on impulse, I checked their stash of Levi’s. I found a 4Long, but it was in a low rise style, and only 1% lycra. I’m usually a size up in low rise, and a size up in 1%, so I figured that the combo might send me all the way up to an 8. But I own a pair of 6s from that very collection, and that was before the latest loss, so I tiptoed back to the dressing room to try them on.

Victory! They were even easier to lift over the octopus than the Ralph. All hail K-mart! All hail Levi’s! I am in a 4. Size 4, and only 1% Lycra. I didn’t even have to lie down with the dust bunnies to get them on, and I still have period puffiness!

So, thinking it over, maybe I’m okay that I’m still up this week, even though tomorrow is Thursday, and even though I might have to weigh in at my meeting in the ‘plus’ category. Maybe it’s okay that I’m a ‘four-plus’. It beats the heck out of 20-plus.

I wanted to wear my size 4s back to the office, but I had the new 6s with the sequined belt on, and anyway, I owned them now. I can wear them anytime I want. I am a 4, and I own a pair of jeans to prove it. One percent lycra. One hundred percent awesome.

On the way back to my desk, I walked right by the chocolate cabinet. I knew where I was going, but I didn’t even look over. Let some other backhoe have it. That loot isn’t worth an appetite curb in the other direction. I like the route I’m taking, even when (especially when!) it isn’t by the windows.

A the F(our) !!!