Fat Jeans, what a bitch.

I wrote this a hot minute ago, back when I lived in East Nashville, where the Sun was warmer and the days were slower.

For the past month I have been in a writing workshop with one of my favorite authors – I feel spoiled to be apart of this group of women. So. Dang. Lucky.

Any-who! I wrote this two years ago. Recovery is still recovery and life goes on. None the less, when I read my writing from two years ago, my heart breaks for the pain I felt and at the same time wildly appreciates the honesty I managed to get onto paper.

My fat jeans last year are my skinny jeans this year.  

Hung from hangers in my closet are lifeless moments from years past. 

Size zero pants from the dirtbike in Western Massachusetts. 

A medium dress I wore partially because my body swam in it, unable to fill it out from Nicole’s wedding. 

Size two boyfriend jeans from the stuffed and bloated feeling that overcame me after dessert – one scoop of lowfat, non-dairy Halotop ice cream. 

Looking at my closet now, the hangers have more space in-between them. 

Size four, the fuschia Anthrpologie jumpsuit I wore for graduation with those strappy blue leather strappy heels Mom bought as a graduation from Able. 

27, the J.Crew jeans short my body quickly was growing out of, into something greater. 

My fat jeans last year are supposed to be my recovery jeans this year. 

My fat jeans last year are supposed to be ok with growing.

My fat jeans last year were never meant to be a size two from Gap. 

My fat jeans never should have existed. 

But, here we are, on my front porch in East Nashville, grown out of my fat jeans. 

Fat is a feeling my nutritionist tells me. 

Fine. 

I’ll rename that pair of jeans – my ‘I detest recovery jeans sometimes’ jeans. 

Is that better? 

My fat jeans last year do not fit me any more. 

That is okay. 

Because, I am okay. 

I am here. 

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