Blame it on the Oreo's

With the exception of my father, I come from a family of trim, active people. And while it's embarrassing to admit it, I'm not only the shortest member of my family but at times the widest. My mother and sisters are very aware of their weight, and I know that each time I visit them my weight will inevitably be mentioned in some very casual way. If I'm on the thin side I'll be told, "Wow, you look really good." And if I'm not the worst I'll get is "Oh, you'll lose it honey." It's not that the comments are intended as hurtful, but I do feel a bit self-conscious that I'm being evaluated based on my width.

In my day to day life I don't actually really notice that I'm plumping up, it's usually not till I go home and attempt to borrow my mother's pants that and I can't fit them past my knees that I feel badly about myself. So I cut calories, eat smaller portions, and drink more water, and in a few months I usually/hopefully, get to a more pleasant weight. And when I'm thin I go through my closet and get out my skinny pants and feel all proud of myself. Then I discard the large sizes, sending them happily to the Salvation Army and relish in my once-again little body.

Then the cycle begins again. I get blue, I slip into eating large American portions, I start sneaking donuts, I begin feeling isolated, and one day the skinny pants feel a bit tight. I assume I'm just bloated and that in a few weeks I'll be better, and put the offending pants on the top of the shelf for use in couple of days when I'll supposedly be back to my usual self. So, I start wearing my transition clothes--drawstring skirts, yoga pants, elastic waistbands. And then one day either I'm behind on my laundry, or I think of the perfect outfit to go with the "thin" pants and I attempt to put them on. The results are disastrous, shattering my self-esteem, and making me want to run to the nearest container of Double Stuff Oreo's and eat the whole thing by myself. And since I've previously given all the larger sized pants away, I literally have nothing to wear. So I reluctantly shop for the larger size and get even more saddened by the fact that I've surpassed all previous large sizes.

Then a surprising turn of events. I'm shopping the tiny petite section of a discount store and run across a pair of pants with a handy tag on the hanger indicating that they are not only the right size but are actually petites, so they may actually be short enough (God Bless the Queen and my short stubby legs) and may just fit my girth. I don't bother to try them on--shopping with two kiddos is hard enough, but to go into a crammed dressing room and have my girls laughing about privates and trying to take their own clothes off to try things on is beyond my abilities at this moment. I take the pants home and try them on after the kiddos have gone to sleep. Since we don't have a full length mirror I stand on the toilet and then twist and turn, pleased with the results. I then go to bed with plans to wear my new big girl pants the next day.

The next morning arrives and I happily put on my new big-girl pants, carefully removing all tags. I wear them all day, happy with the way they stretch when I bend, pleased they don't feel too tight around my tummy zone--but don't point it out either.

Then the bad happens. In getting my jammies on I take the pants off and examine them to see if they can stand another wearing or if they need a washing. In doing so I notice something. The tag inside. It indicates a size completely different from the one shown on the hanger. I'm crushed. The size (and no, there's no way I'm listing it here) was BIG. I mean WAY BIG. Big to the point that my kids could each fit into a leg if necessary and walk around like conjoined twins.

So to cope with the situation I went to the kitchen and helped myself to another round of fat-inducing lard filled cookies, then went to bed in my drawstring jammies tied just a bit looser than usual.