Embellishing the Truth

Here’s the thing: my mind sees a shape other than the one in the mirror.

Last I checked, my eyes were in my head, adjacent to my brain. The information about my size has to travel only a few inches, and yet, apparently, there is a FAT blockade that distorts the data as it moves from my optic nerve to my cerebrum.

I am of normal body weight. The BMI agrees, as does Weight Watchers, the American Heart Association, and the American Medical Association. Health Central lists me as underweight, but it’s based on my ‘small’ frame, which is determined by my ability to wrap my index finger around my wrist and have it overlap with my thumb.

None of this surprises me. I am aware that I no longer need to lose weight. I still have Fat Lady habits, but I hope to quell them, even as I acknowledge it will take as long to create a diamond than it will to refrain from swooning at a peanut butter Twix. But, apart from the monthly (okay, daily) cravings, I have no problem with that. What’s irritating me now is my insistence on buying only clothes that are the smallest size possible, even when they don't fit me.

For instance: I have been a size 6 in dress pants for months. Some cuts can only be described as Saggy Butt Britches, but for the most part, they are flattering to my figure. I can slip on a 6, zip and close them and wear them the same day without a stitch of alteration. I can do this even when the slacks have that nasty inside button whose sole purpose is to imprint itself into the Octopus. I can wear side zipper, low rise, flares, pin stripes, and the occasional wide-leg balloon pants that strike me as more Bozo Goes Corporate than true business casual. I am a size 6.

So why do I insist on spending hours combing through the TJMaxx Career section, yanking every size 4 into my cart and then forcing Howard to play chess on his Blackberry until his eyes cross, only to stomp, cursing, back to retrieve all the same pants in size 6, only to refuse to buy them, because they are a 'big' size? Because, dear friends, on occasion, and with certain labels, I can wear a size 4.

I have proof of this: a lone pair of size 4s that fit me like a 6. They don’t pull across the tummy, as do other, traitorous 4s. They don’t surf atop my ankles as many of the lesser 4s do, and they do not stitch their name into my hipbones or across my fanny. They simply fit. I can even wear them during PMS week. They are awesome and I love them.

I shudder to consider that these may be a small size 6 in disguise, or that perhaps the maker went too far to the right in sewing the legs to the waistband. I’ll never know, and so I do not consider that these are a fluke. My brain has decided that I can wear this size 4, and so, by deduction, I should be able to wear any size 4. When I shop, I try on only size 4s, and then, when none of them fit me, I leave the store in disgust. This has gone on so long that I am starting to run out of pants.

The same goes for sweaters. I can wear a Small, but I can’t wear every small. I have “solved” this problem by refusing to buy anything in a Medium. I wear my jeans much tighter than my dress pants (all hail the Mother Goddess, Lycra), and so sometimes the ultra-low rise forces the Octopus into the “cheap seats”, atop my waist band. I can’t really wear fitted sweaters, or anything that isn't an extra-long, because if I do, I'll have a spare tire stretching my sweater out of shape OR poking out from under the sweater's hem. This last problem is particularly troublesome, since not only is my tummy flabby and covex, but completely inappropriate to display at work. So I have a choice: buy size M sweaters or size 4 jeans. Guess which is going to happen?

If you chose ‘neither’, you are correct. In fact, my Too Tight To Breathe taste in denim has gone to the ridiculous place. Last night, encouraged by my Darling Husband, I bought a pair of size 25 jeans. Remember the Seven jeans that I bought a few months ago? Well, those were an American size 3, and a “waist” size 26. I have a pair of Lucky’s in 27, but frankly they aren’t going to last because they get saggy during the first wearing, and so I am constantly throwing them into the wash, and then drying them on the ‘volcanic’ setting, to shrink them. I have done this so often that now they are too short, and so I have to take them out of the dryer and stretch them by hand before putting them into the kiln. It’s too much work-better to get 26s and be done with it.

But no, I couldn’t be content to own a pair of jeans that fit like tights. I had to see if I could shrink down just a little bit more. I spent a full 10 minutes in the dressing room with the 25s, tugging, twisting and grunting in the handicapped stall (the only one big enough to lie down in), and I still could not get them closed. I was on Day 24 of my cycle and I did have 3 meals in me, but still, even my absurd jeans rule stipulates that you have to get them on in order to buy them. I snuck out to show Howard, who immediately started making grunting noises of his own, and so I scurried back, peeled them off of my legs and, after circulation had returned, joined Howard at the checkout line.

Here’s how tight they are-I got them on this morning, but the octopus had to be stuffed into my bra, and even after I’d worn them for a full hour, I had to lie down on the bed AGAIN to get them back on after my trip to the can. They are too small, and they are too tight, and it’s a wonder I don’t walk like Frankenstein when I wear them. But I’m keeping them. At least until after my period when a true judgment can be made.

It’s risky for me to own something that I could outgrow by picking up just one pound, or that I can’t honestly wear for 10 days out of the month. It’s risky, because if there is even one item in my closet that is too small, I may collapse. Yet I’m considering keeping the jeans because they are a size 25. Never mind that they make horizontal tracks all down my legs from the creases, or that I have “NEVES” tattooed on both hipbones from the decorative pocket divots.

This is really stupid. There’s no shame in being a 6, or a Medium, or whatever the tag reads. The tag is immaterial-it is just a label, and it’s meaningless. I weighed 144.875 pounds on my wedding day, and my Size 12 dress fit me perfectly. I was okay with that. Admittedly, I had 7 months to get used to it, and I’m still talking about it, but I accepted it. Sort of.

Okay, maybe not. And that’s the problem. Why must I strive to wear smaller clothes? I’m not getting any smaller unless I spend all day at the gym and/or reduce my food intake to tomatoes and water. I could significantly slim my waist line if I considered The Surgery, but I cannot rationalize general anesthesia for a bikini-ready midriff.

I needed to shrink for so long that my brain still considers that the only clear sign of success. Now I need a new goal, one that reinforces my current state, and that dismisses the tags as little more than a randomly assigned number. It's time for me to grow...into myself.

I want to wear the most flattering clothes I can find, and it’s important that my lines travel smoothly, and don’t need extra gas to get up over Old Smokey. I can't do that as long as I'm sucking and tucking into the smallest numbers, or wearing sweaters so tight across my stomach that I have to hold my breath all day, just to keep from looking pregnant. This is the size I am, and the size I plan to stay. It's time to build my permanent wardrobe, with pieces that I can wear most of the year, and that will last forever.

Maybe that's the trick: buy something that lasts so long that the tag falls off, and when I go to replace it, I won’t look for the label, I’ll just check the fit. Yeah, okay. And after I go buy these ‘who cares what size they are’ pants, I’ll go to the food court and indulge in a Fat-Free Cinnabon. Nice try.

But any goal worth mocking is also worth trying. The blasting is over, the sculptor has put her knife down, and it's time to pick up the paint and the embellishments. This is my size, and I will find a way to embrace it. My first act will be to go out amidst all the Christmas Crazies and find myself a new pair of size 6 pants. Maybe I’ll go nuts and get a medium sweater, too. Don’t hold your breath, though. That is, unless you’re buying jeans that fit like mine.

A the Y(ielding to the Floor)