Early this year I posted about my New Year’s Resolution, which was to never abuse or insult myself again.
This morning I failed.
There’s a large, chain store called Second Avenue that sells used clothing. I like secondhand stuff, but I don’t shop there because when they first opened I went in only to discover that they organize everything by color, not size. Life being far too short and precious to sort through two hundred blue shirts looking for one that fits, I decided they were dumb and never went back.
Recently, someone told me that they wised up and reorganized the store according to sizing, so this morning Ted and I went in and checked it out.
It’s true, the store is now sorted by small, medium, large and extra-large. Which means that they have nothing above a size 16. Since I wear a 24, I quickly gave up and left. Still trying to prove me wrong, Ted eventually stopped picking through the racks and followed me.
Outside the store I then said something to him along the lines of, “I don’t know why I went in there in the first place – I should know by now that whales like me aren’t welcome anywhere that clothing is sold. I shouldn’t even be allowed to afflict others with the sight of me in public.”
This comment was caused by a cumulative effect, not just by Second Avenue.
A couple of weeks ago, a few of my co-workers pointed out to me that the pants I wear to work, although clean, neat and black, are made from denim – so I shouldn’t be wearing them at the office. Since I own three pairs of such pants, this cut in half the number of trousers available to me to wear at work.
So for the past two weeks I have unsuccessfully been looking for new pants. Second Avenue was either my third or fourth failed attempt to find anything. Although those stretch pant type things that always come in my size are apparently allowed (and why they’re okay and not denim I have NO idea, I don’t make the rules), I just don’t like them. My brain interprets them as the kind of thing that, as a fat person, I should be wearing – so of course I rebel and don’t want to.
So all of this came to a head in the aforementioned self abusive comment I made, to the last person who should ever be subjected to such things – my best friend, my biggest fan, my husband.
He, very rightly, flipped out. He was so torn up by hearing me demean myself he didn’t know whether to yell or cry. Since he’s a huge part of the reason I made this resolution in the first place you all really can’t imagine how sorry I am right now.
As always, tomorrow I have to get up, pick myself up, and try again. Not just nutritionally, but emotionally as well.
And Ted? I’m really sorry.