Despite the fact that it was a chore smacking of a great
deal more effort than I wanted to expend on something that wasn’t lying on the
couch and watching House DVDs and
snacking on bacon–which is really my ideal weekend and also, unfairly, the kind
of weekend I don’t ever get to have–I cleaned my closet out last weekend.
This is something I’ve been dreading for a long time. Not just because of the effort, though that of course
was a major factor, but because my clothes! My beautiful clothes! I have been
so many sizes, and at every one of those sizes I have tried to not only cover
my lumps, but cover them fashionably.
Fat girls, more than anyone else, require some major fashion
Do you know how long it takes to learn how to navigate the
maze of overpriced chain stores (cough-Lane
Bryant-cough), to figure out how to
thrift and accessorize and find non-plus-size pieces and shoes (oh, I love
shoes) and pull them all together so that you resemble a reasonably fashionable
and attractive person who is not wearing an appliquÃ©d sack or looking like your
mom? It takes a damn long time is how long it takes.
Now, though, it is a whole new time. Flavor Flav would have
been so proud of me if he had known how much I knew exactly what time it was,
the day I climbed up the bus stairs and yanked my skirt off because it had
become three sizes too large. Except I actually waited until I was walking down
the street and my three-sizes-too-large pants fell off.
It is a very sad story full of pathos, and I don’t want to talk about it.
So, with my pants around my ankles, I realized that it was
time to climb over the piles of crap in my closet and start clearing out the
piles and piles of clothes I had accumulated over the course of my adult life.
It felt like a march toward doom, in which I’d discover that the only things I
had left to cover my body was a sheet and a match. The match, see, would be for
lighting my hair on fire, so to distract people from noticing my sheet. Though
it would be a very high thread count sheet, because that’s the kind of classy
lady I am.
I fortified myself with some bacon and a ham and a shot of
heroin right in my eye and I girded my loins and gritted my teeth and pulled up my
sleeves and I dove into the fray. Oh, I was ruthless. I was entirely without
ruth, aggressive and cruel. With a heart hard as diamonds, I tore things off
the hangers and I piled them up on the floor behind me. Going, going, gone
forever and never to be put back on my body, I do not care how sparkly you are,
pretty satin shirt, or how boobalicious you were, sexy black tunic, you are both
sacrificed to the gods of not wanting to wear baggy clothes, because there is a
difference between hiding your lumps and looking like one.
Ha ha, I said, triumphantly dashing to the ground the final, beloved shirt that
filled me with nostalgia and evoked sepia-toned memories of happy days–green,
with silk-screened birds, which I wore on my first date with Guy, or possibly
another dude–and I was done. I had a pile of clothes that were going off to good and sexy
hands, a pile of hangers that were totally empty, and I would be spending
the rest of my life completely naked. Or, wearing an electric blanket as a
toga. Either or.
It had taken me a couple of hours to go through all my
hanging clothes, the clothes in my drawers, the clothes in boxes and bags stuffed
in the middle distance behind the box the microwave came in and the cat
carrier, and I was wiped. Nakedness, however, spurs a girl on, so I went into
the garage and pulled out the big plastic bag I kept all the clothes I wore two
years ago–the clothes that weren’t fitting a couple of weeks ago. It was
worth a shot, you know? Because bath towels are not really business casual. It
was scavenging a couple of pieces from here, or selling my ovaries on the black
market for cash in hand or Old Navy gift certificates.
Three years ago, I had gained so much weight that I was forced to tear open my
bag of fat clothes. This time, I was forced to tear open my bag of skinny
clothes. The thing about this surgery–even when it is the most frustrating,
pain in the ass thing I’ve ever done, even when it completely kills me that I
can’t just have a peanut butter cup, that I have to choke down another vitamin,
that I am really tired of people at work asking me whether I can really eat
that, really? can you? wow!–this surgery is still the source of surprise, of
delight, of hope. I hoped I’d fit into some of those clothes; it was a little
over two weeks, and a little over eight pounds later.
I fit. I’ve got a skirt, a pair of Capri pants, a half-dozen
tops I missed wearing, two dresses in which I feel blazingly, awesomely hot.
Really, can you ask for more than that? You cannot.
I’m not fitting into H&M clothes quite yet, and I am
scared to death of setting foot in a Forever 21, or even the Gap–but I have to
stop being impatient. I have to just wait, a couple weeks, a month–no, that’s
not true. I have to go through the next week and the next week and the next
week, doing the things I am supposed to do (vitamins, running, lean fucking
protein, I am looking at you. Even though I am very, very tired of you) and
things will work out. Things always work
out. I’m a little sore from working out.