Okay, so maybe it isn't an actual sisterhood with meetings, wine and cookies - but please tell me I'm not alone in this weird compulsion to hold on to clothes that JUST. DO. NOT. FIT.
Why? Why would I keep a pair of jeans that pre-dates my oldest child (who - for the record - is 15!) and I have not worn regularly in at least a decade. If I remember correctly these jeans cost $50 in 2003. I'm pretty sure I've got the best return on my investment possible.
Or does it have to do with holding on to a lost part of my life? The identity I had before I became head butt wiper and crisis mitigator. When I was just Kim - this glorious 28 year old with nothing but time, money and my entire 30's still in front of me.
I honestly don't know. Maybe it's to prove to someone (ok - myself) that despite being just shy of 45 I've kept it together enough to squeeze my two kiddo body into pants that once draped my pre-child hips.
Every once and a while I try them on and they fit. Other times I try them on and I can't get them zipped. Or they zip but my muffin top essentially suffocates me and renders any thought of sitting down WITH THE PANTS BUTTONED a sad joke.
Yet I can't get rid of them. I wish I could. I wish I wasn't so tied to a past that no longer exists in my reality. I'll never be 28 again. Hell, I'll never be 38 again. Why is that a shameful thing? Why can't I embrace who I am right now?
Who says being 45 is somehow inferior to being 28? Why is my body - which produced two amazing human beings - somehow defective because I gained a few inches and pounds in the process?
Why can't I be happy with who I am instead of constantly struggling to be someone better? Fitter. Prettier. Less wrinkly. Less cellulite-y. Someone worthy in the greater world where appearance seems to matter more than anything else.
It makes me sad. When I try those jeans on I don't feel good about myself unless they fit like a dream. Then - somehow - I'm validated. Tiny jean queen. I matter. I'm NOT different. I'm still that same 28 year old ready to take on the world (clueless, but ready).
When they don't fit? Depths of despair. Self loathing. Great big fat ass. Ugly. OLD. 😢
Last night, I was talking with my husband about weight loss and the upcoming summer season. He has been swimming regularly and is quite fit - though - definitely not carrying the same physique he had at 28. But I still thought he looked good. Great even.
It gave me pause. I work out. I take care of myself. Maybe I look pretty great too? Even if I'm not 28. Or 38. And in reality pushing 48. And honestly, I think I'm the only one that cares about these stupid jeans. None of my friends have ever asked about them. :-) They don't notice when I'm a little bigger - or even a little smaller. My friends and family love me how I am - wrinkles, sag, wearing bigger jeans to go with the corresponding bigger butt. It's time for me to start loving myself. <3
Chasing this impossible quest has not changed anything. I am still 44. I no longer carry the hopes (or hips) of younger me and that's okay. My body and face tell the tale of a life well lived. It's a story I should stop trying to silence. In the immortal words of David Bowie:
It's about damn time. Excuse me, I need to go buy a new pair of jeans.
 |
| The infamous Express jeans |
Why? Why would I keep a pair of jeans that pre-dates my oldest child (who - for the record - is 15!) and I have not worn regularly in at least a decade. If I remember correctly these jeans cost $50 in 2003. I'm pretty sure I've got the best return on my investment possible.
Or does it have to do with holding on to a lost part of my life? The identity I had before I became head butt wiper and crisis mitigator. When I was just Kim - this glorious 28 year old with nothing but time, money and my entire 30's still in front of me.
 |
| 24 year old me & my scruffy hubby |
I honestly don't know. Maybe it's to prove to someone (ok - myself) that despite being just shy of 45 I've kept it together enough to squeeze my two kiddo body into pants that once draped my pre-child hips.
Every once and a while I try them on and they fit. Other times I try them on and I can't get them zipped. Or they zip but my muffin top essentially suffocates me and renders any thought of sitting down WITH THE PANTS BUTTONED a sad joke.
Yet I can't get rid of them. I wish I could. I wish I wasn't so tied to a past that no longer exists in my reality. I'll never be 28 again. Hell, I'll never be 38 again. Why is that a shameful thing? Why can't I embrace who I am right now?
Who says being 45 is somehow inferior to being 28? Why is my body - which produced two amazing human beings - somehow defective because I gained a few inches and pounds in the process?
 |
| A little fuller in body and soul |
Why can't I be happy with who I am instead of constantly struggling to be someone better? Fitter. Prettier. Less wrinkly. Less cellulite-y. Someone worthy in the greater world where appearance seems to matter more than anything else.
It makes me sad. When I try those jeans on I don't feel good about myself unless they fit like a dream. Then - somehow - I'm validated. Tiny jean queen. I matter. I'm NOT different. I'm still that same 28 year old ready to take on the world (clueless, but ready).
When they don't fit? Depths of despair. Self loathing. Great big fat ass. Ugly. OLD. 😢
Last night, I was talking with my husband about weight loss and the upcoming summer season. He has been swimming regularly and is quite fit - though - definitely not carrying the same physique he had at 28. But I still thought he looked good. Great even.
It gave me pause. I work out. I take care of myself. Maybe I look pretty great too? Even if I'm not 28. Or 38. And in reality pushing 48. And honestly, I think I'm the only one that cares about these stupid jeans. None of my friends have ever asked about them. :-) They don't notice when I'm a little bigger - or even a little smaller. My friends and family love me how I am - wrinkles, sag, wearing bigger jeans to go with the corresponding bigger butt. It's time for me to start loving myself. <3
Chasing this impossible quest has not changed anything. I am still 44. I no longer carry the hopes (or hips) of younger me and that's okay. My body and face tell the tale of a life well lived. It's a story I should stop trying to silence. In the immortal words of David Bowie:
It's about damn time. Excuse me, I need to go buy a new pair of jeans.
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