Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Looking through my closet is like following a timeline. It chronicles my bodily changes better than any medical chart could. Front and center are the current outfits, mostly conservative business clothes because of my profession. Lots of black...lots and lots of black. Sensible shoes with good arch support. No sleeveless..don't want to show those floppy upper arms. Belts? I think not. I would have to have a waistline in order to wear a belt and the search party I sent out to find my waistline hasn't returned in years. Move to your right and you enter my pre-career promotion clothes. They are more casual and 2 sizes smaller. I keep them because I fully intend to lose the weight I've put on with the stresses of my new job, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet. Still deeper in the closet are my pre-hysterectomy clothes. They are great clothes and I just can't bear to give them away but we're talking 25 pounds and lots of estrogen ago. Those clothes are more brightly colored, the skirts are shorter, the tops are definitely not "matronly" (how I hate that word). And then there are the clothes in the closet in the spare bedroom. Of course I can't fit them. It's been about 8 years and 45 pounds since I graced those clothes. They're not even in the same room with me. I look through them every now and then, however. They're pretty clothes, meant to accent a woman's figure. They were obviously worn by a confident woman, not afraid to look stylish or stand out in a crowd. I wonder where she went? I suppose it's ridiculous to keep these clothes that are too small. I should throw them out, but I just can't bring myself to that. To do so would be to accept defeat, to admit that I have finally lost the battle with weight. These clothes are my lifeline to a hope that I so tenuously cling to. It's the hope that picks me up and makes me try again one more day.