Skinny Jeans

Everyone has them. I know I do. A year or so ago I finally donated the jeans I used to wear when I was ridiculously and unhealthily skinny; however, I've continued to hold onto a couple of pairs that were a weensy bit too small for me but that I could totally wear if I was either a) working out often b) recovering from the flu or c) not eating as much as I should have been. Alternately, I also had my bigger jeans--the ones that I would wear if I had either a) had one too many glasses of wine/beers/dirty vodka martinis over the weekend, b) not been working out, um, ever, or c) been PMS-ing.

This afternoon, I cleaned out my closet. This was highly necessary, and in an effort to really purge clothes I wasn't going to wear, I knew I'd have to try on all my many pairs of pants. And while doing so, I realized why I'd been delaying purging my pants for so long. BECAUSE IT SUCKS. And now, having done tried on all my pairs of pants, I would very much like to jump off a bridge. OK so maybe that's taking it a little far. But I would DEFINITELY like to put on a muumuu, climb into bed, and listen to "Both Sides Now" (my go to sad song--it's a good one if you want to feel empty and dead inside, which is precisely how I'd like to feel at this very moment) on repeat. Maybe with a glass of wine or three on my bedside table.

On my new body, my former skinny jeans have now become my hello I would like to look like a ho today jeans because they are SWEET GOD so tight. Similarly, my former big jeans have now become my completely regularly fitting jeans. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. So I'm kind of freaking out. HOWEVER, as my body has gotten healthier, so has my mind, and I'm taking a stand: I am putting a time limit on my freaking out. I started this post at 4:30, and I am giving myself exactly 20 minutes to feel sorry for myself. That's 20 minutes ONLY of sulking and hating myself and mourning my skinny jeans and listening to Joni Mitchell. That means that at 4:50, even if I still want to be cranky and sad and annoying, too bad. I have too much to do today. I have to finish cleaning the apartment, make soup, take a shower, and get ready for date night with Preston. I don't have time for that nasty voice that still lingers in the back of my head to take over this afternoon. My eating disorder took over three years of my life; that's 2,000 days, or 48,000 hours of truly hating myself. And I've given that voice twenty more minutes than it deserves today.

My twenty minutes are very nearly up. And I find that anger is taking over the desolate hollow feeling that imbued my body when I first looked at myself in the mirror wearing my former skinny jeans/new sluttastic jeans.

As I close this post, I'm still on the precipice. I still want to cry. I still want to put on my Joni, get into bed, pull the covers over my face, and never emerge. BUT, just a little bit more than that, I want to prove to that voice in my head that I'm in control. That I'm the one who chooses what I eat, how far and hard I run, and how I feel. And for today, for this Saturday afternoon in September, that's going to have to be enough.