Today I started the day wearing my size 16 jeans and feeling really, really fat. I have lost enough weight, however, that these jeans are just a little too big and much too uncomfortable. Both pairs of size 14 jeans were in the wash. I ended up putting on one pair even though they need washing because they are more comfortable than the 16s. My 16s are saying to me, “Sariah, I’m still so dark because I’m your newest pair of jeans. I’m not new enough to be too stiff to wear, however. Sure, you’ve lost weight, but you know you’ll gain it back, so keep me. Put me back on. Put on a belt for now, and just deal with it. You know you love me.”
Meanwhile, my 14s are just begging me to throw them in the wash already. They are faded and torn at the bottom. They are slightly tight at the waist, but fit everywhere else. And they are still begging me to wash them.
From my closet you can hear a faint screaming. That would be the size 12 and 10 jeans. They have been packed away in boxes of clothes that I love, but I’m just too big for. I refuse to get rid of them in the vain hope that I will wear them again. They are screaming for help: “Please, Sariah!! We love you! We miss you! We can’t breathe in here!!” They forget that I can breath in them. I can’t even button them up. So they must stay squashed in boxes in the back of the closet.
I had a funeral several years ago for my size 8 jeans. You can’t hear them.
My size 6 and size 4 jeans moved out with the ’90s. I actually liked the ’90s. I miss the 6s and 4s, but it is impractical to even think about them. They are probably a part of someone’s denim quilt. I wonder if they think of me like I think of them.