I found myself standing in the fitting room today doing what I have previously dreaded most: trying on clothes.
When I reached my highest weight of 257 lbs, I convinced myself that I was not allowed to buy any more "fat" clothes because I didn't deserve it. I wasn't going to reward myself for what I had become.
I would stare daily at a closet full of clothes that I literally could not wear, and hadn't for many years. I had a small pile of clothes that I would cycle through each day - 2 pairs of black pants, Spanx (obviously), some XL men's t-shirts I stole borrowed from my husband, and the most important of my attire...a long coat. Every chance I got I would wear a coat. One I felt was "slimming" and hid all of the chubby parts I was ashamed of most. A magic coat that made me feel as secure as I possibly could while I sat comfortably in the Obese Class II category. I would wear my coat in the summer, the winter, the fall. Inside, outside. It was my overweight security blanket. "You must be hot!" they would say. "I'm fine, thanks. Not hot at all." I would lie. Which was usually followed by a strange look of confusion from the questioning party. The truth: I was hot. Stifling. Drenched. But it didn't matter. I was hidden.
This time trying on clothes was different. This time, I was 51 lbs thinner. I chose not to wear my Spanx today as an act of liberation (I know). I stood there, looking into the mirror at a new person, or so I had hoped. Someone who has a trash bag of clothes that no longer fit, sitting in the corner of their bedroom. Someone who feels better than they have in 6 years. A more confident, happy individual who's appearance matches how she feels. But what, you ask, did I try on in the fitting room? Another coat. Because my current coat is much too big and I'm swimming in it. A COAT!?!?! What was I thinking?!
The memo to tell my brain that I can be coat-free and flaunt my slimmer physique, has been lost in transit.
I am proud of the work I've put in to get here. I still have a ways to go before I reach my final goal, but I am living a healthy lifestyle that I can sustain long term. That is the goal. This wasn't meant to be a quick Wam-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am fix. This is my life and I need to live it (without a love affair with cupcakes, chips, or chow mein).
So why then, when I look in the mirror, do I see the same frumpy, unhealthy, dressed-in-black sad sack I've worked so hard to decimate? Why do I still grab the XL when I know for a FACT that it will not fit? Because it's safe. Comfortable. Familiar.
Wearing yoga pants and leaving my coat at home is as daring as I get these days, folks. It's not a lot, but it's a start. I know that these changes won't happen overnight, and that losing my weight means jack if I don't take care of my noggin too. I need to learn to love me...and I am. Slowly. I'm treading in unfamiliar water here and it's a process. I am a different person than I was before I had my kids. My body has carried 2 babies at the same time, then given a boat load of disgustingly unhealthy food and drinks to become the blob of unhappiness I am working hard to beat each day.
Although I'm in no place to give advice at this point, I can tell you one thing: body image is a bitch. She'll find you in fitting rooms, and in your bathroom mirror. She'll seek you out when you always expect it.
Call me Ishmael.