Dear Size 8 Jeans,
I see you every day, hanging on a sad white hanger. Alone. The faded denim that comfortably fit me five years ago has been rendered “too small” for my body.
I’m so sorry Tommy Hilfiger jeans. I have let you down. You have been pushed into a part of my closet where I dream of wearing you once again. A section of my closet where clothes never see the light of day if they no longer fit, but I refuse to give them away. I refuse to let you go Size 8 Jeans.
Four years ago, I was still able to fit into you, but only if I did the “bend-and-lunge” routine first. Ladies, you know the drill – pull the pants on as far as you can and then lunge forward with one leg. Hold that stance for eight seconds and repeat with the other leg.
But as the years progressed, my body grew and you now sit in the “skinny clothes” section, along with a pair of white capris, a black skirt and cute tops that I can no longer wear in public because of the back fat roll that appears from under my bra strap.
And, ever since I turned 37 it’s as if my metabolism is screaming, “SCREW YOU MELISSA! STARVE YOURSELF TO LOSE WEIGHT!”
I could walk 10 miles a day and crunch from sun up to sun down and it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.
Ever since I turned 37 gravity has ruined my body. The kicker is, my muffin top is still there, but I also have a bigger ass because as the year has progressed, my ass has dropped down. At this rate, by the time I turn 38 my boobs will reach my “under carriage” and my ass will touch my calf muscles.
I wonder if I were to hang myself upside down for an hour a day if gravity could reverse itself? Could the fat cells moving down to my ass somehow move to my boobs?
And, because I want to fit into my damn size 8 jeans, I have decided to torture my body, as well as my self-esteem by taking part in a weight loss program with two other girlfriends.
They are losing weight and keeping it off. I on the other hand, have plateaued since day one. Oh, wait, I did lose 3 pounds one week because I gave up drinking wine, but then I gained 2 pounds back because Fucking Flow arrived. I hate her. She ruins everything.
This week, I’m banking on my cold to put me back at the losing 3 pound mark, plus maybe an extra two less pounds. I needed this cold. I needed to have my taste buds rendered inactive.
Oh, Size 8 Jeans, I swear to God, I will not give you to Goodwill. I will never let anyone else wear you. No one else talks to you on the hanger. No one else touches your legs and whispers sweet nothings or phrases like, “I miss you, Old Friend.”
So, to you metabolism … you are messing with the wrong bitch because by Christmas Size 8 Tommy jeans, I will wear you again. I will feel your fabric on my body … even if I have to wear you on my arms.