First, let me say that women’s pants sizes are ridiculous and nonsensical. Men’s pant sizes make far more sense, using actual inches for measurement, the waistline and the inseam. Women’s pants? Some places run even sizes: 8, 10, 12, and some odd sizes: 7, 9, 11, and so on. And there’s short (sometimes “petite”), regular, and long. Now, it’s relatively consistent, but sometimes different brands run small, and sometimes they run bigger.
I could go on. But let’s just agree that women’s pants sizes do not make sense.
Tomorrow is my first day at my new job at SDJ. Maybe I need a different pseudonym/acronym, since it will be my day job, and not just Sid’s. Whatevs.
So, I had to buy new pants. Jeans. For the job. When I asked about dress code, my new boss said casual, like jeans and a nice shirt (which is my general go-to style anyway)… maybe khakis. I’m guessing because I’ll want to be comfortable, but also keep the clients comfortable, not being over dressed and “above” them.
My jeans I’ve been wearing all the damn time finally gave out, last night, at the 4th of July BBQ I went to with some Single Parent friends. (Side note: Aaron showed up. No real developments there, except that I still clam up and am incredibly intimidated by even the thought of having a meaningful conversation with him)
Now, I had to give up the maternity pants not too long post-partum, because my body just wasn’t the right shape to hold them up. Which makes sense. But I clung to the shirts for… a little over a year.
I had trouble finding “real pants” because I didn’t want to accept what size I needed to wear, it made me feel sad, and depressed, and generally not good.
Finally, I settled on jeans from Target. They have the short length (which I need) and they were stretchy… such that I could buy a size (or two) smaller than I would technically need in less-stretchy jeans.
I bought those jeans in 5 different sizes. I haven’t needed the biggest in a long long time. I haven’t fit into the smallest in a… fair amount of time. I’d been rocking the middle size for a little while now. Last night, the friction from my thighs rubbing together finally wore a hole there.
I went shopping, for the first time ever, at a plus size store. I saw it in the plaza, and was like, “oh, I think that’s a plus size store…” and decided to go in. Walking in, looking at the prices, and sizes, (and size of the other patrons) I was overwhelmed. Yup. This is real. I’m here, in Lane Bryant, and I need to be here.
I tried on one pair of pants as quickly as possible. I grabbed a second of the same size, and checked out.
No, you can not have my phone number. No, I do not want to sign up for text alerts. I do NOT want to sign up for your credit card. Sweet Jesus I don’t want there to be any proof that I ever shopped here, and I hope I never have to come back.
What? That second pair is $15 more than the first? I don’t care. Just give me the pants, and let me leave.
Can I have a bag? No, not for the pants, for me to PUT OVER MY HEAD AS I LEAVE.
So, I feel the need to qualify here that I am at the lowest end of the “plus” sizes. And they do in fact carry my size in “normal” stores…. but it’s much harder to find, and incredibly rare to find in “short” or “petite” size.
Also, because I’m an asshole, I will say that both the women working behind the counter had arms that would rival my thighs for girth.
HEY, CONGRATS! I’M THE SKINNIEST PERSON IN A FAT LADY STORE!
Ok. So, there’s a point here. I got home, and put on my new pants.
Oh. So this is what it’s like to wear pants that fit? This is what it’s like to be comfortable in your clothes? What?
Holy shit, what a metaphor. I talked about my Mom trying to shove me in her mold, what she wanted me to be, who she wanted herself to be… her “idealised projection,” and how my only identity was vacillating between that and trying to break out of that mold.
I have literally been trying to shove myself into pants that don’t quite fit. All because of a number. A number nobody else can see!! Save someone who gets my pants off, and at that point, I don’t think they’ll care. (And if they do, I don’t want to sleep with them)
And, let’s face it. When I force myself into those pants that are too tight, all for the sake of pretending I’m a lower number? I’m probably not fooling anyone.
On a related note, I have an appointment with a nutrition/eating disorder program on Tuesday.
Oh, and I went to my first CODA meeting tonight. I may feel more comfortable there than I have in SLAA, ever since the sponsor drama went down. I’ve gotten a lot from SLAA, but maybe it’s time to move on? I dunno.
Hey, maybe I’ll go to an OA meeting, and AA meeting, just to round things out. MUST SOLVE ALL OF MY PROBLEMS AT ONCE. Because I have SO MUCH free time I need to fill.
And one more thing. I meet Cat next weekend. Part of the agreement is that overnight guests have to be “cleared” before they can spend the night when Emma is present. This requires the other parent meeting them, as well as a background check. Mostly just to dissuade a revolving door of new people brought home. Stability.
But, yeah, that means meeting her. Whee.
I guess I sort of met her today. No, not really. But she was IN MY FUCKING PARKING LOT.
He picked Emma up, and as he’s getting her in the car, I hear him talking to someone. He’d mentioned seeing a friend who’s in town visiting, so I thought he might be on the phone. I look out the window, and there it is. The passenger door open, and her hand comes out to hand him a sippy cup for Emma.
At least she didn’t get out of the car. But still. I effectively shut down after that. Like, sat on the couch, numb. And then dragged myself to go shopping. At the aforementioned plus size store.
There’s probably about 4 more posts in all that last dump of info. But I should at least try to sleep before my first day of work.