Glutton - Part 12

Being fat is like wearing an outfit that you hate ...every dang day.

Now calm down.  I don't hate myself.  In fact I think I am rather delightful.  But I have this weird way of disassociating what I consider the real me from my actual body.  There's probably five good years of intensive pyschotherapy needed to fix that situation but I ain't got time for all that.

Because I have bigger problems.

My fat clothes are wearing out. 

After four years, the hastily bought, “I will only need these for a few months until I get my act together” clothes have seen better days.  I had replenished the fat shirt wardrobe but the pants…good grief.  To a one, they all had holes where my thighs had rubbed the fabric away.  (That is a friggin demoralizing sentence.  Mercy!)  In the summer of 2012, I don’t think I owned any sleepwear without holes.  I could just never admit to myself that I needed new fat clothes.  Fat was never going to be permanent.  The sad part is I have been fat for at least 80% of my adult life, I just never invested in clothing. 

 During the lean years, I could not stop shopping.  My closet was stuffed with skirts, dresses, jeans and blouses of every type.  I moved all those skinny clothes into my new super big walk in closet.  I moved them in as a sign of optimism.  "I am going to wear this stuff again!"  "I will not be fat forever!"  But when I walk in that closet, all I can think is "Look at all these beautiful clothes that I cannot wear." 

The clothes that do fit me take up a tiny amount of space.  Which is cruelly ironic if you think about it.

I have this black shirt.  If you know me, then you are groaning right now.  Because you know the black shirt.  It has 3/4 length sleeves.  Perfect for all seasons except extreme summer.  It's a ridiculously large size.  But you would never be able to prove that because I cut the tags out of all my fat clothes immediately upon purchase.  (Who am I fooling with this deal?)  Some helpful clothing manufacturers have begun printing the size on the actual fabric instead of sewing in a tag.  People, this must stop.  But the black shirt is not the worst part.  The tshirt is...

The giant tshirt is when I knew it had all gone wrong.  It’s happened more than once…or five times.  The giant tshirt is roomy.  It hides everything.  I buy one in 6 different patterns/colors and I wear them with everything. It's like a fat girl uniform.  When I am not wearing them (like at church) I am completely uncomfortable.  Exposed.  Like I am wearing a flashing, neon sign above my head that reads ‘fat girl wearing real clothes!!!’  My giant tshirt renders me invisible.  I am completely ignorable.  Just like I like it. 

I never face the unimaginable.  What if the giant tshirt gets too small.  What if?  

And perhaps it's time to face the truth about my wardrobe. (Perhaps!?!?!?!?)   I don't buy nice clothes because I feel the need to punish myself for being overweight.  The message is sent loud and clear by the contents of my closet.  Thin Rachel deserves 9 pair of knee high leather boots.  Fat Rachel needs to just wear that one pair of tennis shoes every day.  Thin Rachel deserves skirts, dresses, sweaters and slacks.  Fat Rachel better hope nobody she knows dies, because she ain't got one appropriate item to wear to their funeral.  Thin Rachel had coordinating undergarments.  Fat Rachel...oh merciful savior...you don't wanna know.

And more and more I am discovering that Fat Rachel just might be a glutton for punishment.