Yesterday I ripped the seat out of my jeans. This wasn’t unexpected — I’d noticed the very thin spot next to the pocket but was hoping to eke out a few more washings. Not just because I’m my father’s daughter (read: a cheapskate), but because these were my ‘fat’ jeans. These were the jeans that had ‘grown’ with me and were stretched enough to not shrink to microscopic proportions during the spin cycle. A suck of the gut and a couple squats made them look great. I could sit all day without having to unbutton them — assuming I wasn’t PMSing or eating Thanksgiving Day dinner — and didn’t feel like they were painted on. I loved them. RIP jeans.
“Why don’t you just buy another pair?” asked my sensible co-worker. Luckily, she’s a she so she understood when I told her that I had another pair — two, in fact — that are the same jeans in the exact same size. But they don’t fit. A guy would have said “So just buy the next size up.” Uh uh, no way. That’s a Pandora’s Box of insecurity and humiliation. My co-worker understood completely: “It sets a precedent.”
It’s not like I’m obese but I’m definitely at my biggest. I can’t remember ever being a size 5/6 — after middle school, I stayed a 7/8 for many years. As I grew older, I also grew bigger and settled into a 10. Granted, I would have liked to stay an 8 but let’s get real. I’m lazy. Too lazy to exercise like a maniac (or even a sane person) and like food too much to constantly diet. I was perfectly happy being a size 10. Actually, I loved my body. I had a little junk in the trunk and a flat but soft tummy. I felt and looked good!
Then Hubbo and I made it official and my eating habits started changing. Always able to eat whatever he wanted without gaining a pound, Hubbo liked to frequent burger joints and I joined him. Suddenly, my size 10s were a little snug. But by then we were cruising up and down the coast, and I did a lot of cooking. While exciting, that lifestyle also offers a lot of downtime. And I love to bake. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT. It also tends to be a sedentary way to live.
So awhile back, I had to move up to a 12. This hurt as I always remember my mom being a 12. I vowed to lose weight, to slim down, to start exercising and eat better. Yesterday, my jeans split. And now I’m faced with a decision. Bite the bullet (like I need to eat anything else!) and buy size 14s, which will fit my ever expanding butt, or suck it up and lose weight. My fear is that, if I buy the 14s, I’ll feel all thin because my clothes aren’t strangling me, and I’ll diet “next week.” The urgency to get healthy is removed. But in the meantime, I’m forced to pour myself into my jeans every day.
Hey, Fat Lady, quit singing and get yer mitts off me!