I haven't bought new jeans since my two-and-a-half year old was new born, and that was one pair, that no longer fits. I've been putting off buying new jeans because I didn't want to buy them in the same size as the ones I already own. I kept telling myself that I was going to lose a bunch of weight, so I needed to just wear the ones I have until I can fit into a smaller size---No point in spending the money when the jeans will just be too big in a few short weeks. Yeah, right. Well, the one pair of jeans I have that do fit are in pretty sad shape. The fabric in the inner thighs is very thin from rubbing together....not a problem I would have if I COULD fit into smaller jeans.
I hate shopping for clothes as a Fatty. It's so embarrassing. I don't want anyone in the dressing rooms or the cashier to see the size I'm buying, and what's worse is when you try something on and it doesn't fit and you have to walk out of the dressing room, admit that it didn't fit, and go get an even bigger size! I think this probably also has a lot to do with why I haven't bought jeans in over 2 years.
But, it had become completely necessary, so, I finally gave in and headed out to buy a new pair of jeans (but just 1 pair, because I AM going to lose the weight, and no point in wasting money on 2 pairs!)
I was fairly certain I needed a size 16 or 18. Humiliating as that is, I grabbed several pairs from the racks and hurried to the dressing rooms, trying to fold the size tags under the clothes and not making eye contact with the dressing room attendant. Safely inside the dressing room, I pulled of my own jeans and caught a glimpse of my backside in the double mirrors. Oh my Lord. Wrinkly fat thighs squished tight against each other....I stood there in horror thinking about the last time my husband and I had sex....doggy style. EWWWW! How could he possibly have found that attractive? I was fighting tears at this point. I HATE shopping. I managed to compose myself and tugged on the first pair of jeans--a size 16. WAY too tight. Okay. Alright. I was prepared for this, that's why I grabbed the size 18. Pull on the size 18, and they don't fit either. Oh, I can get them on, but there's no way I could be seen in public in them. My legs looked liked sausages stuffed into casings and I could barely breath because of the waste band sinching off my mid-section. Great. Now what?! Oh, I knew what....I just didn't want to face it.
The only option was to hand over the too-small clothes to the attendant and face the cold, hard truth. I had to go to the 'W' racks. You know, the "Woman's" size clothes. At least, that's what the 'W' is supposed to stand for---"Woman." Whatever. You know the people who decided to add the 'W' to the sizes weren't thinking "Woman" when they did it. They were thinking, "WIDE!", or, "WOW--What a Fat Ass!!" Then they had to come up with a nicer word to sell to the general public of Fatty McFatties, so they coined the term "Woman." As if you are a REAL Woman because you've got REAL curves! Sure, riiiiiiight. Seriously, why do we need the 'W'? It's certainly not to make us feel better. Do they think we need an extra little reminder that---"Hey Lady, You've got a HUGE ass!!" And what's with repeating the sizes 16 and 18? Have you noticed that? The sizes go 14, 16, 18, 16W, 18W, 20W, etc., etc. Why do they repeat the 16 and 18 and then add a 'W'? Why not forget the 'W' and just keep going up. I mean, for God's sake, if you're already having to buy a size 22, do you REALLY need a 'W' added on to it?? Isn't it obvious that if you are wearing a 22, you're a Woman With Curves? Duh! Or, if they insist on the W, why not start the sizes over? At least we could feel a little better about the number! Like, 14, 16, 18, 2W, 4W, 6W, etc., etc. Seriously, no one can possibly walk away from a dressing room with any sort of self-esteem or dignity carrying a pair of jeans labeled 20W. Obviously, the fashion industry is not made up of Fatties.
Anyhow, I ducked my head and as quickly as possible I grabbed a pair of 16W and a pair of 18W and headed back to the dressing room. Of course I needed the 18W. Couldn't even claim a small victory of being able to walk out with the SMALLEST W. Nope, it's for certain now. I am a Fatty McMommy---a REAL Woman with REAL Curves. And I've got the 'W' on my jean label to prove it.
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