You might say I had a bit of a moment the other day…
The day started with a coffee date with an old colleague of mine. She is one of those people who is super easy to talk to (about anything) and very straight forward. AKA my kind of people.
We eventually got on the topic of my weight loss and I shared that, depending on the day, I’ve shed about 60 pounds since last January. Like I always do, I downplayed the loss: 60 pounds is nothing, not when I see others both bigger and smaller than me doing much more amazing things with their own journey.
But, my colleague reminded me, 60 pounds in a year? That is amazing. That’s huge. You can’t discount that.
And she is right. In the grand scheme of what I’m trying to do here, 60 pounds is a mere drop in the bucket. But it’s a drop nonetheless–and drops add up. Scale numbers may remain the same day after day, week after week, but progress is being made in other ways—big and small.
And then the Universe decided that just in case I wasn’t getting the point, he/she/it would slap me upside the head with it.
I decided to treat myself to a new pair of black work pants since I was drowning in the pair I wore to work that day (yes!) While at the store, I decided that maybe a new Easter outfit was necessary. So, as I tend to do these days, I started grabbing everything cute in a bunch of different sizes. Just for fun.
Now, let me preface this by saying this particular store I went to never fits me right. Things tend to consistently run awkwardly small on me. Except for the boobs. Somehow the boobs are always gigantic…but I digress.
There I stood with an armful of pretty springtime clothes, popping with color. All in sizes I haven’t worn since…college? High school? Ever?
The first pair of pants I tried on, a size smaller than the ones I walked in wearing, fit like a freaking glove. I smiled.
The flowing pink dress and the yellow sheath dress (a style my hips never tolerated), both three sizes smaller than what I wore when I started this? I could have walked out the door in either of them. I smiled a bigger smile. Teeth and all.
The adorable coral and white stripped tunic that I was dying to wear with leggings? The smallest size there, a 14/16, was too big. Too. Big. Me and my perma-grin got a little giddy, did a little dressing room dance.
Finally, the mint chiffon shell with white beading. My hips also do not tolerate chiffon: it clings and does not stretch. So I started with the size I squeezed into last spring (and then had vented out the sides so my hips fit): a 22*. I was swimming in a sea of minty fabric. I could have fit two of me in it. Well, maybe me and a smaller man-friend…but I digress.
Then I tried the 20. Still treading water.
The 18? Nope.
The next available size, the smallest they carry, was a 14. As I was working the top off the hanger, I was chuckling at the absurdity of me even trying to get this garment over my head.
But then…the damn thing fit.
Except for the boobs. Of course. Damn things. But if that’s my biggest problem? I’ll take it!
That smile on my face was quickly accompanied by some big ol’ tears. I was having quite the ‘ah-ha!’ moment in that dressing room.
Ok, Universe. I get it. Just like the size of my butt, hips, stomach, arms (everything but my boobs) is changing, so is my life. Even when I feel like collapsing in a heap, even when I see that same damn number on that devil scale, I’m changing. I’m progressing.
I am making my damn life.
My boobs be dammed, I walked out of that store with that mint tank top in a size 14. Just because I could. Thanks, Universe. You’re a pal.
*Disclaimer: I’ve never “publicly” and purposefully disclosed my sizes/weight…big deal for me, guys!