Wo here has lost weight, dropped a size or two, and yet still finds themselves eyeballing their new, smaller clothes with utter disbelief? You think to yourself, “This will never fit me, not in a million years”?
Since starting my weight loss program in January, I’ve dropped at least a clothes size all over my body. The jeans I notice more than anything else because I only possessed the one pair that would fit, and I was rocking those things even if they cut me in half. And trust me, those jeans were cutting me in half. At my largest, I was probably more than ready to get a new pair of size 12s, but I was a pigheaded stubborn mule. I said to myself I would not, not ever, buy myself another pair of jeans; I’d either suck it up and stick with the ones I had, or go to wearing stretchy cotton pants. (Note I did not say “lose some weight” as a third alternative; I was in denial at that time.)
I ended up sticking with the jeans, but in hindsight, that was a pretty rotten thing to do because whenever I wore them my mood turned absolutely foul. Nothing ruins your self-esteem and attitude more than having your pants remind you in a painful and obvious way that you’ve gained more weight than they can handle. It was exacerbated by, despite being faced with obvious and undeniable truth that I’d gained weight, I still refused to actively do anything to change that.
So instead of ‘upgrading’ my tight 10s to 12s, I had spent the last 6 months or so wearing pants that were seriously hurting me with the waistband cutting deep into my waist. Sitting down was awful; all I could think of was getting home and unbuttoning them so I could spread out and breathe properly.
Now, over the last two months I’ve dropped a size – perhaps even two – and I’ve had the distinct pleasure of banishing those torturous pants to the bottom of my dresser, hopefully never to be seen again. Yet while I watched the scale reflect my weight loss, the realisation of my actual drop in size came slower. I slowly began to notice that those jeans didn’t cut into me brutally when I sat down. Then I began to notice that my rolls weren’t hanging over the top so much. Then I began to notice – with irritation – that when I was moving around a lot, I had to pull my pants up so they didn’t sag around my butt.
And still, even then, with the knowledge that my jeans were getting loose, I couldn’t begin to contemplate the idea that my older, smaller pair would fit. I was in some fuzzy, bizarre twilight zone where one pair was weirdly loose and the next size down would be cruelly tight, silently mocking my efforts and taunting me for being delusional in my optimism. (Or so I felt.)
I eventually managed to summon up the courage to dig into my closet and pull out my old beloved jeans I haven’t seen for nearly two years.
A quick digression: the old pair of jeans were a pair I bought here in the US; they are size 10. However, size conversions are different around the world, so these Gap 10s are actually size 12s in my old Australian size. The smaller pair of jeans I’m talking about are old Aussie size 10s – equivalent to US size 8s. So while the tags say I’ve gone from US 10 to Aus 10, I’m down from US 10 to US 8. For simplicity, I’m referring to US sizes from now on in this post.
So here came the old jeans. I stood in the bedroom and eyed them doubtfully. They looked about as big as a Barbie doll’s backside; I had to be smoking to think I could funnel my butt into them. After all, I’d been wearing a size larger for years, so what makes me think I could wear these now?
But hey, I dredged up the courage and slipped them on. Up over the calves, over my thighs. Ooo, a little snug there, I have a bit of meat on my thighs, but the real test for me is in the waistline. I paused, then pulled them up and then held my breath as I pulled the zip together and buttoned.
I’m pretty sure a choir of angels sounded at that moment – they fit! They were a little snug in that first fitting, I will admit, but holy moley, I was wearing a size 8 set of jeans and not turning blue or purple. I ended up strutting around the house, shaking my tail feather at Boo and just basically parading in my new old jeans. I felt as if I’d been granted a whole new wardrobe, I felt on top of the world! Away went those awful size 10s, banished, begone! I could now wear these ones in their place, so they became part of my daily wardrobe.
But oh, the mind is a funny thing. See, I tried these jeans on when I was around 150lbs or so; today, I’ve just dipped under 146. For all intents and purposes, the numbers confirm that I continue to lose weight. I can readily accept the numbers, that’s not the problem.
The problem is, despite spending the last few weeks wearing these jeans on a daily basis and finding they, like their predecessors, are also beginning to get a little loose, I still find myself eyeballing them as if they may have secretly shrunk during the night without me knowing it.
These ‘new’ jeans, even today as I get dressed, I still hold up in front of me, frown at, and then hold my breath while I pull them on. I’m still stuck in the mindset that I’m a size 10, that I am not even close to a size 8 and that these smaller 8s won’t fit me despite all the evidence that points to otherwise. Agh!
And here’s the amusing part: if I keep losing the way I have been, I’m probably going to have to pull my old 6s out within the next month to see if they fit. I’m pretty sure my brain will asplode from the sheer disbelief when that moment comes. I’m looking forward to it.