Here’s some pants, as promised! Sorry about all the truncated models. I usually don’t include pants in my sets, because like most women, I have to try on about 80 pairs and have an existential crisis before I find a single pair that looks remotely okay on me. I have had great success buying pants online from Delia’s, a store for teenagers that stocks just a few core styles of pants, but in a range of colors and fabrics, sizes 00 to 20, and inseams from 26 to 37 inches. I have super tall and super short friends who buy jeans from them despite being ten or more years out of their target demographic, and with the recent addition of a mid-rise skinny jean, I’m pretty psyched about Delia’s. I have found that their Morgan skinny jeans in gray or black are good for work, because they are more tapered than skintight and don’t have any external logos or dumb stuff on the back pockets.
Since I broke my foot, I have gained about ten pounds, which means I am still at a healthy weight for my height, but which also means I no longer fit in any of my pants. I have learned a valuable lesson about buying skintight pants (the lesson is: don’t), but I’m kinda bummed out. I know that my boyfriend and parents and feminists and everyone who isn’t a total jerk thinks I should be happy with the body I have, that I should exercise and eat good food and be grateful for my health no matter what size I am, but WHAT THE FUCK I HAVE NO PANTS!
Sorry. I am pretty lucky to be as thin as I am, considering my hatred of exercise and love of hot dogs, but it’s hard for me to face the fact that it took me a year to lose twenty-five pounds and a month to gain ten. The part of me that wants to be above our bullshit, fat-shaming culture is at war with the part of me that fears being asked “when’s the baby due?” when wearing an empire waist dress (some advice: never ask anyone when her baby is due unless you have seen an ultrasound, and never wear an empire waist dress [unless you are Olivia Hussey in Romeo and Juliet]).
Until I was about 20, I was known as the skinny girl. As a teenager, I was five foot ten and less than a hundred and twenty pounds.
Even though I know that maybe a lady’s clavicle isn’t supposed to be quite so pronounced, even though I think I look prettier now, people used to ask me if I was a model. Nobody ever asked me if I’m a model anymore. I finally grew the breasts that I wished I had when that picture was taken, and now I have to get down on my knees at stores to reach the bras in my size. Why are all the bigger bras on the lowest racks? Is somebody watching all the big boob ladies on the security cameras as we scour the racks for something that isn’t white or beige? It’s like all the cute bras are made for chicks who don’t even need them.
I was relating all this to Tara and Althea at Sonny’s a week or so ago. I mentioned how I needed to ride my bike when my foot healed and start eating better. Then I asked if they wanted to get French fries.
“Wait, didn’t you just finish saying you wanted to lose weight?,” Tara laughed.
“Well, I don’t want to lose weight more than I want to eat French fries,” I said.
I almost didn’t write this, because I was afraid that it would look like I was trying to get people to tell me I’m not fat (I know I’m not), and because nobody wants to listen to a size ten bitch about how her pants don’t fit. Clearly, though, part of my problem is that I seriously need to get over myself, so fuck it. This is how I feel, even if it’s pretty silly.
Especially when you consider that I am eating a huge plate of sausage right now.