They keep telling me it’s okay. That this isn’t the biggest thing in the world and of course I’m still beautiful.
I never said I wasn’t. The words never left my mouth where I suggested my beauty was only surface level. That you couldn’t swim in a pool of my self esteem, nearly drowning from the depth in which I loved myself. This is just different. A new experience that I don’t know how to navigate.
So I call my mother for guidance. But sometimes I can only reach my sister who I’ve seen cry in fitting rooms as she struggles to find pants that fit. As she focuses on the number they’ve given her instead of how she feels in them.
And her struggle isn’t mine. But I can understand why she couldn’t focus on how she felt as the number swirled around her head. Now her words are laced with suggestions of eating better and exercise. She’s not wrong. But I don’t need that.
The space between my thighs closed months ago. I cheered and proudly showed off the lack of gap. My ass is finally coming in and I can go to the club without feeling self conscious. They mention how I’m getting thicker and I shake my ass in celebration. But now when I try to slip into pants, I find they no longer fit.
And I’m not sure how to deal. I keep saying I’m tired of buying new pants. Am I really? Because I joke about how I love spending money. I’m headed to buy emergency jeans right now…so is that the difference? Emergency jeans means I don’t have any other pairs.
Or maybe I’m no longer sure how to envision myself. Gaining weight doesn’t hurt until you try on clothes.
Maybe I just need to stop putting on pants from last year because this is this year and this year I’ve gained weight.