Jeans

I put on jeans Monday for the first time in well over a year. I felt so dressed! It was a pretty great feeling, really. I felt very together and kempt like a white lady in a TV show. I did not look well put together; I looked like someone who had gone through fertility struggles, a global pandemic and year plus of quarantine, deep isolation, and depression, major work stress, a pregnancy, a difficult birth, a move, and raising a newborn, all lubricated by phases of compulsive eating. That is, I looked like someone not at all used to being at the weight they are now, and extremely uncomfortable in their own skin.

But I felt more put together than I usually am, is what I’m saying.

I got stretch jeans. I didn’t mean to, necessarily — I didn’t know they were stretch until they arrived. But when I tried them on, they seemed like a good idea for my new body, but it was a mistake, because I forgot that stretch jeans bag out and fall down after you wear them for fifteen minutes. Remember that phase we went through when all jeans were stretch jeans, and then we realized they were stupid? I had to hitch my jeans up all day, which really undercut my feeling of being a fully dressed and put together grown-up Lady.

I always feel more productive on the five days per year I actually get dressed and then I think I should do it every day, but I don’t, because I always wear workout clothes all day because my idea is I will use my treadmill under my desk. I do maybe half the time? This week, I’ve only used it two days. But it’s like how they say if you want to write, you have to sit down at your computer every day just in case the muse shows up. You have to wear athleisure every day, just in case you somehow summon the energy to move your fat ass a little bit.

I’ve always wanted to be the person who gets up early enough to work out hard for like an hour, then shower and get fully dressed before work, and I have been that person for the odd month here or there throughout my life. It felt good, sort of, except that it also (and primarily) felt fucking awful. I could never maintain it very long because I value sleep and a forgiving waistband too much, and now it’s fully off the table now at least until Edith is able to take care of herself for an hour or so, so I am off the hook. Maybe when Edith has left for the big city and I am all alone and still working because I will never be able to afford to retire, I will finally get fully dressed every day.

Hell, maybe at that point, I’ll wear a cocktail dress and pearls to work every day, go fucking all in, why not.

5 Comments

  1. Fat asses move all the time, ask me how I know. Anyway, being trapped under the millstone of capitalism means it takes just as much energy to move a thin ass as a fat one.

    Also, I think everyone should be reading your blog. I’ll get on that.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh, I def did not mean to speak for all fat asses or to imply my ass’s fatness is to blame for its recalcitrance — my PARTICULAR fat ass has always been mostly sedentary except for rare moments here and there, and indeed independent of its degree of fatness. And thank you!!! High praise indeed from my favorite writer.

      Liked by 1 person

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