my "skinny clothes" story...

come on, now. you know what skinny clothes are—the ones that you shove in the back of your closet when you gain ten or fifteen poounds. they’re a little too tight on you, so you tell yourself, i’ll get back into these next season. and then “a little too tight” becomes “i can’t get my fat bum into this”—which of course brings on waves of self-pity, a strange sense of embarassment and endless pints of ben & jerry’s. “next season” becomes “next year” and that becomes “someday.” but you don’t throw out those skinny clothes, people! why? because you are keeping hope alive—the hope that you will get off your lard rump and get to the gym and get it all back, every single bit of it: the energy, the focus, the fun, the physical strength and leanness -- but most importantly, the skinny clothes.

well. i am here to announce to the world that i pulled out a semi-retired pencil skirt yesterday, one that i haven’t worn in so long, i forgot that i had it. i held it up and looked at it and i thought—i should give this away, i can’t fit into this thing. and then i thought, what the heck, try it on just this once. i stepped into it and lo and behold—it slid right over my hips like it never got stuck there EVER, fastened it without having to suck my stomach in or hold my breath, watched the fabric gather loosely where my belly was supposed to be sticking out, and fold in on itself. and here’s the kicker: i could walk around in it without feeling any kind of constriction whatsoever. i immediately took it off and did the snoopy happy dance in my bra and panties, which ended in me letting out a real live field holler, something akin to a rebel yell actually, the likes of which have never before been heard in these here yankee parts, because there are simply no cows or root hogs to call home in harlem. no, not one.

and that is the end of my “skinny clothes” story. or the beginning, depending on which way you look at it.

See more progress on: get my body back