I’ve been wearing my wedding rings on my right hand the last two weeks or so.
Not out of some desire to throw people off or attract suitors– just because they’re too floppy on my left hand. I don’t remember how much I weighed when I got married– but safe to say– more than now– since the engagement ring, the wedding band we bought right after law school, back when I had plenty of people I could date before the BH and I got together? Then, they fit on my left hand. Now? Well, they don’t.
I haven’t yet bought ring guards so I can slide them back into their proper place. Or thought about having them resized, since the wedding band’s curved on the inside and can’t be. I’ll have to replace it and I’m superstitious as is.
Nor have I bought new, skinny jeans, even though the canvas cargo pants that are my usual kick-around not-at-work pants (again, bought from the Gap in law school when I was perfectly healthy and, I think, a size 12? memory’s fallible and I am an ancient 35, how on Earth can I be expected to ever recall what went on over 10 years ago?) are also loose, the drawstring waist paper-bagged and the size 14 petite jeans baggy at waist and ass, dragging low over ilia if I don’t wear a belt.
But I’m superstitious, you see. I keep waiting for the weight to creep up again, because sure, it’s been almost a month now off the med that’s been making me sick and I’m holding steady at 157.2 (when was the last time I weighed that? Valedictorian in high school?) because the other med suppresses appetite too, minus the whole homeostatic and stomach upheaval thing– and our family, we’re not known for our skinny genes. Mom’s 300+ and just had a hernia operation, busted a gut eating her second double cheeseburger at Mickey D’s (and no, I’m not kidding). Dad’s over 200 and holding despite how hard he works on the treadmill and exercise bike, and Little Brother, 6’3″ and more athletic than I’ll ever be– if he looks at a carb the wrong way, he puts on weight too.
If I buy the size 12s, or hell, the size 10s because apparently, that’s what I am at Ann Taylor Loft (and isn’t that a whole new identity crisis, finding out all over again what fits because hell if I know and they keep changing womens’ sizes across brands and over the years so who the heck knows?) and yesterday I got so pissed when I went into J. Crew to look for a leather bag and the skinny chicks fawned all over me because … oh. I was a skinny chick too, and some of the clothes they had might even fit me– might even look good.
I beat it out of there quickly.
It hadn’t even occurred to me to go in there to try on some clothes, I was only going to do that at J. Jill and Chico’s, the refuge of women with softening waistlines and real bodies all over. So I did that, and guess what? Now I’m a M, where I was a L/XL, and I left more weirded out than before with only one new outfit to show for the trip, and feeling very unsettled for my lunch with my friend before work. I made sure to order the o-rings with extra tartar sauce on the side.
But my tenth wedding anniversary’s coming up in November. I guess that’s a good benchmark for all kinds of things–ring guards for left-handed ring wearing– maybe a trip to the mall. By that time, well, I’ll probably still be a fat girl in my head (I think those of us who are fat kids will always be, somewhat, no matter how we look on the outside)– but I can at least dress so I’m not so saggy-baggy and leftover looking on the outside.
Clothes make the man, right? Maybe they can re-make the woman a bit, working outwardly in.