There comes a time in every (fat) woman's life when she must face the fiasco of her clothes closet. My closet has been crammed with clothes for quite some time now. It's something I try to ignore because the truth is, most of what I actually wear is in the basement laundry room.
This morning I decided to pull out all of the summer clothes from the closet, as well as anything that doesn't fit--no excuses, no wistful utterances of "someday."
This was one of the most depressing things I've done in a very, very long time. It's hard having to admit that 90% of what you own is either the wrong size or suited for a lifestyle you no longer have. After I pulled everything out, I was left with a sparse collection of gray, black, and dark brown clothes I don't even like but I'm keeping because they fit. It's a financial issue. I have drugs to pay for, dammit, drugs that are making me fatter than I've ever been.
I had some really beautiful clothes. Some things were expensive, others were just pretty, and all were well-matched to my pre-meltdown personality. At this point, I generally go for the things that (1.) fit, and (2.) are comfortable. This has left me with a mountain of clothes spread across my bed, a mountain of pretty things mocking everything I have become. I'd like to make a big bonfire in the back yard, or maybe prolong the agony by just stoking the chiminea on the patio, but there's a practical side of me that can only say, "Goodwill. Again." I guess sometimes I can be mature and not spiteful. Doesn't feel nearly as satisfying somehow.
This leaves me with two options for the afternoon. Go out and endure the humiliating and thoroughly frustrating act of trying to buy a few more outfits that are the elusive right size and cut for my shape, or just bury myself in the pile of reluctant cast-offs and blow my brains out. Dramatic! Like performance art with an edge. Oh, wait. I don't own a firearm and I'm pretty sure I'm on that list that says I can never buy one.
I know. Wouldn't it be great if instead of hauling people off to The Place for Defective and Misunderstood Brains, someone could run an intervention on my behalf and force me into an intensive 90-day program of liposuction, cosmetic surgery, and spa meals. Nothing could possibly brighten my mood more at this time.
Why, why, why couldn't I have been born with a freakishly high metabolism and a borderline-pathological obsession for exercise? My parents had four children with three fitting this description, but in the middle something went horribly, horribly wrong genetically and they produced me. I got me to live with for every day of my life. Just another reason I am compelled to believe there is no god--at least, not the kind that has any affection for humans.
I'm rethinking the autumn bonfire...
I have the freaky-fast metabolism, but it is not as good as it sounds. Sometimes I lose my appetite and I am already thin. I get scared if I lose a couple of pounds because it feels like a threat to my health. It also makes me afraid to go to the doctor because I don't like it if one of the nurses makes some shitty comment after weighing me. One time I had a sinus infection and had to go, but I knew I was down a few pounds. I put weights in my pockets so I wouldn't have to hear any crap when I was already stressed out. Too bad you and I can't make some kind of metabolism swap-off with each other to even things out for us both.
I understand about finding clothes to fit. Because I am freakishly tall, I have a terrible time. Those tall clothes usually come in the bigger sizes and that makes me feel really abnormal.
Oh, Lynn...Most of my friends are quite tall (around 6 ft.) so I know about the issue of finding clothes that are long enough. I, on the other hand, have spent a small fortune at the tailor's shop.
A comedian once said that the aggregate weight of the plante's population never changes, it just shifts. You lose a pound, I gain a pound...
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