Hello. My name is Anastasaeon and I suffer from the Curse of the Newly Married Couple*. I got too comfortable and allowed my weight to slip out of my control. I didn’t have a frim grasp on it to begin with, however, I was always a pretty comfortable size 8-9, depending on the time of month.
Yes, it’s sheer laziness. I don’t blame society, or delicious foods, or television, or skimpy models. I blame myself. When I realised just how far I had let myself go, I began the frantic backpaddling that is dieting. I exercise frequently, as well. However, weight loss is sloooooow. I come from the microwave generation. I want it noooooow!
Since that is not realistic, I just have to bite the bullet and work hard. I dug this damn hole. Now I have to get out.
My husband has been nothing but supportive throughout. He says he loves me no matter what size I am, but he does want me to be both happy and healthy. I am certainly not happy being overweight, and since heart problems and cancer run in both sides of my family, I think it’s only logical that my health will slip away in time, as well. Mr. Stasaeon has given me some much-needed motivation: he says when I reach my goal, he will give me $250 to spend on new clothes.
The only clothes I have ever bought for myself have been jeans and T-shirts. I have a couple of pairs of nice dress pants and dress shirts for dressy occasions, a couple of skirts of varying sizes that I rarely wear, and two dresses: one a very out-of-date crushed velvet dress that I got back in highschool, and one cream coloured with brown flower design that I wore to my courthouse wedding. Most of these clothes DO. NOT. FIT. I “outgrew” them. I’ve been wearing hubby’s clothes. I felt awful.
Whenever we’d have to go out, I’d hunt for clothes that still fit, and find myself in my husband’s jeans and one of my bigger T-shirts. I was cramming myself into uncomfortable clothes, and it showed. I was always too hot in publc, awkward, self-concious, self-loathing… and that showed. Finally, the other night, my husband wanted to take me out to dinner, and I tried to put on my one outfit I had bought last year that actually looked nice: a light hooded shirt with capris. I could zip and button everything up okay, but then I looked down and saw my gut protruding out of the waistband. Even though I’ve been losing weight and several inches, there it was, for all the world to see. I sat down and cried.
My husband sat down with me, and held me and stroked my hair, and told me he thought I was beautiful, and that I shouldn’t worry what anyone else thinks, since his opinion is really the only one that should matter. I told him there was just one other person whose opinion mattered: me. And I was miserable. He promised to take me out the next day and buy some clothes in my size. (Also, he promised it wouldn’t come out of my $250 for reaching goal fund!)
For the first time in my life, I opened my eyes and looked at other people who were my size and body type, to see what they were wearing. I’m usually a very non-observant person. I’d be awful at a crime scene - I could never tell you what the criminal was wearing. I might instead tell you that he seemed unpleasant. 
Anyway, so I started people-watching. I watched people on television. I watched people on the street. And though they didn’t all dress to the nines, they all looked very comfortable with themselves. They didn’t seem to be thinking about their weight all the time. They didn’t even look that big. I’m not huge. I didn’t become a whale. I just have to admit to myself that I’m not that svelte size 8 anymore. Size 8 clothes do not fit. I am working on it, but I’m not there yet, and I’d better settle in for the long haul getting there.
So out we went the next day for clothes, nowhere special, just down the road to Fred Meyer. Just to get something comfortable to wear. For the first time in my life, I bought “adult” clothes. Not that there’s anything wrong with jeans and T-shirts, but it’s the only thing I’ve worn since I was a teenager. I never really tried much else (except those capris from last year). I bought three new outfits, most of which I can mix and match with my remaining wardrobe that still fits (but had nothing to go with): a pair of comfortable, lightweight and summery drawstring pants, two pairs of capris, one pair a rolled-up jeans type with a beautiful hankerchief belt, the other a beige colour with a pretty multi-string belt. One magenta flowered knit top, a green sleeveless tunic-type shirt (don’t know what they’re called, but I’ve never bought a sleeveless shirt in my life!), and a pretty white blouse with pink flowers. Doesn’t sound that significant? It’s HUGE for me! (no pun intended!) I’ve never bought pretty clothes like these before. They are simple and nice. Very summery, light, and so comfortable. The best part? THEY FIT! My zippers zip like they were greased, there’s no struggling with buttons or enclosures, my shirts aren’t clinging to my sides, showing every dreaded roll. My blouse actually closes over my breasts, which need to be accomodated even when I’m at my thinnest. I’m not popping chest buttons, and no one can peek inside. It’s all closed up!
When I got home, I put each outfit on and modelled them enthusiastically for Mr. Stasaeon. Every single time I emerged from the bedroom, his whole face lit up. It wasn’t a put on; he was enjoying every minute of this. He was having a ball looking at his wife! Me! Me of ever-so-little self esteem! Me of the berating self-loathing! He told me each time to go look at myself in the mirror.
I stood there and looked at myself, unbelieving. That was me. And I. looked. fantastic.
It’s funny how easy it all was. How silly I feel now for not just admitting to myself that I needed several sizes larger now to accomodate my bigger size, instead of living in denial for so long, thinking I could just shame myself into losing weight by squeezing into my old clothes. And I will get there. After all, I am eating right, exercising, etc. I’m concerned about it. But I don’t have to look like a mess until I get there again. I don’t need or want to be a beauty queen, I just want to look normal. Most people I see, no matter what size they are, I find beautiful in some way. I finally feel like I fit in, somehow. I can walk down the street and not hide myself. I went out to my FIL’s barbeque last night and could play around with everyone, playing croquet and bocci ball without wondering if something was coming untucked, or unzipped, or hanging out the wrong way, or if my gut was showing. Instead of sitting in the corner feeling too warm and uncomfortable, I was up and having a ball with everyone else. All because of new clothes. Nice clothes. Clothes that fit and suited my body type. I don’t look fat anymore because I’m not wearing the wrong size. Of course I’d look and feel fat wearing clothes too small for me! How simple and silly I’ve been. Everyone there last night complimented me on how good I looked, and most asked if I’d lost weight. Wow.
Last night, driving home, my husband told me I was beautiful. And though I blushed hard and looked out the window, I did smile a tiny, private smile. For the first time, I actually believed him, just a little bit. :o
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- YMMV.
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