The clothes issue? It was war. The fashion industry was out to get me. The sizings they used had got smaller, I was convinced. I’d tirade against the bastards who shrunk the sizes to get more outfits out of the fabric, to get more money out of the badly cut, badly sewn, roughly finished and generally shoddy offerings.
I’m 24lbs down now and it has been a cold shock to realise that the clothes I was trying on back then would never fit. Never. Never ever with nobs on. Ancient trousers have dead, never-to-snap-back elastine. The fact they fit me at all was testament to the fabric stretching to fit my ever expanding waist.
I now wear a 22. My work trews, non-stretch, actual 22’s, are now loose at the waist to the extent that I pull my tummy in and feel the waistband shift south. But they are old 22’s, and trusting the label is foolish. The ancient, oft-patched trews are now in the bin. When this momentous occasion was announced, my husband said:
Good, they looked hideous.
He had a point. It amazes me that I used to wear those old rags to work, like a shroud of old sack-cloth worn as a necessity to appear in polite society. They showed I had no interest in my body, my sexuality or my ability to consider myself part of a wider life. Life was reduced to the cerebral, it was easier.
I bought a pair of jeans (stretch, admittedly) the other day – size 22. And they fit. Then i had to admit that when I started this way of life. there was no way I was a 22. That size 22 was a distant memory that I clung to in desperation, holding a faded sizing label as a talisman to protect me from the truth.
My new jeans are closer, and too warm to wear at the moment, but they fit, are comfortable and I feel confident in them.
Last weekend I managed to fit into pair of 20 trews, non-stretch, but they were rather closer than I would like. Strong-mindely refusing to fall back into the denial trap, I shall wait until they are comfortable – and the 22’s start to look a bit too saggy around the arse – before venturing out to buy a new 20.