I don’t know about other women, but I tend to decide where I’m at on the chubby scale by how my clothes fit. I refuse to step on the actual scale and actually know what I weigh because I don’t want certain numbers flitting around in my head causing pain and guilt. Hey, it’s my reality!
Today I pulled out a pair of jeans that have been sitting idle in my chest of drawers most of the summer. You know…the ones you accidently pick up then immediately toss back in the drawer because they are going to judge you? Yeah, those. Made from one of those slightly stretchy denim materials, the jeans are supposed to be slimming and flattering, but after one or two washes essentially become thick blue leotards. I eyed them with suspicion, but curiosity got the better of me. If I pulled them on and had to do a double intake suck to get the zipper up I’d be in a bad mood. If I pulled them on and there were no zipper issues, I’d be happy. Clint Eastwood’s famous lines, “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” came to mind. One foot went in…then I did a single-footed bunny hop because I was nervous and landed on the bed…then the second foot went in. I shimmied the pants up, up, up. (Well, I’m only 5’4” so maybe two “ups” was more accurate.) The moment of truth arrived…I closed my eyes and did the actions by memory. The button buttoned, the zipper zipped, and I was breathing. I sighed in relief. Today the denim spirits were with me, and it was the best part of my day.