Three and a half months after the baby was born, I had reached my moment of truth. It was time to get rid of all of those pants with the stretchy tummy panel. True, most of the maternity pants and skirts actually still fit, but that's not the point: there is pride at stake here. Line in the sand time. I loved being preggers because then nobody expected me to have a waist, my natural convex shape was admired, and I actually had clothes designed to fit me, with those neat little strings at the back. Sigh. Those were good days (barring the acid reflux, the swollen ankles, the five months of intense false labor - yup, it was swell. Literally.).
So I spent Christmas going through boxes. It was pack up or donate time, and I went to town. I sorted and packed the maternity clothes, I ejected the 'maybe they'll fit someday' clothes, I faced a life without a waist and accepted that this is the life I've been living all along. I looked at my somewhat barren closet, considered the throbbing vein on my partner's forehead when he reviewed our budget last week, and sighed. I do adore buying clothes: I always believe that this shirt/skirt/pants/sweater will fit better than the others, will make me look thinner/elegant/help me write the dissertation. As you can imagine, I have a lot of stuff that barely fits, that matches absolutely nothing else I own, and that I'm actually too timid to wear. But with two kids, a mortgage, car loans, tuition - okay, so maybe this week is not a good week to go shopping.
And then there it was: a pair of jeans, size (noneofyerbusiness), from the Gap before the Gap decided that anything that fits me shouldn't cover my undies. Heaven. I resisted the urge to throw out the other three pairs of jeans, none of which quite fit right, and danced around in my closer-to-perfect jeans. Hooray!
Next week: maybe a sweater to go with that?