CLXXIII. The Sisterhood of the Expanding Pants -   

   When a recovering anorexic fits into a pair of maternity jeans from the GAP, all hell breaks loose. I had no idea the sale denim leggings were for a budding mother. There was no indication on the tags. After all, the size translated to zero and they looked tiny. 

 I ventured to compare the price I paid in store to online as soon as I came home, yet I could not find the pants anywhere. It was not until I googled a description of the pants that something almost identical came up for the maternity section, and yet it was not the same as the pants I purchased. It was close enough though. 

 I wasn’t sure if the pants were for the pregnant or not. It’s like when medical professionals advise against looking up symptoms on web search engines. The results are not reliable. 

 Still, I was so disgusted by the idea of me buying a pair of maternity pants when I haven’t had my period in 2 years, that I ventured to return them less than 24-hours later, picking up the wrap denim skirt instead.  

 I had been eyeing the skirt for a long time. For one, it was almost a carbon copy of a denim wrap maxi skirt my mom used to own. It was also right on trend with the 90s scheme- my childhood and preadolescent era. It is timeless, classic, and a staple piece for my rustic-contemporary wardrobe. It personifies Americana. 

 George, the cashier, said that the pants were not maternity, and yet I couldn’t muster up the courage, If that’s what you call it, to keep the garment which wreaked so much havoc on my mind in the several hours that I owned the pair of leggings. The skirt was not an impulse purchase; I had wanted it for a long time. The size of the skirt was xsmall.  

 I don’t know what to think anymore.  

 I put on spandex leggings for the first time yesterday and my mother suddenly had no desire to speak to me. She thought I had lost weight. I didn’t. I gained. I think. 

 She tapped my shoulder blades that poked out from underneath my sweatshirt before announcing that she was going to the car, away from me. 

 I went out with the same leggings today and the amount of stares cast in my direction was unsavory to say the least. 

 The leggings, my mom said, were the reason for the stares. She advised me to wear dresses or skirts to cover up my legs. I asked her if she was embarrassed. She responded that she wasn’t, but that if I did not want to be stared at, it would be wise of me to not wear close-fitting clothes.  

 All that said, I’m back in my sweats and just in time for this unexpected cool-down in temperature. The less than 80-degree Fahrenheit highs in combination with the cloudy overcast skies, and my nightly watermelon eats that is equivalent to an internal AC, have made me feel like it’s fall. 

 Catching glimpses of the supermarket aisles, I saw bags of candy corn, plastic pumpkin baskets lined up in varying hues of Halloween colors: smoky grey, majestic purple, acid green. 
I saw faux foliage of ashen yellows and glowing ambers, next to cutlery in the same color scheme for Thanksgiving. 

 I am overcome with sadness. A wave of whimpering threatened to escape my slightly parted mouth so that I could remember to breathe while preventing dryness.  

 Another outstanding interview, another person hired “internally” from within the company - someone who already knew all the senior editors. Another disappointment. Another prospect collapsing in on itself. Another season coming to its end without a task to complete. 

 As much as I am enamored by the fall season, I want for expectation. I need to look forward to something. I am not entitled but I can say that I deserve this much. “Make it happen,” I said, he said, she said, to no one in particular.

CLXXIII. The Sisterhood of the Expanding Pants -

When a recovering anorexic fits into a pair of maternity jeans from the GAP, all hell breaks loose. I had no idea the sale denim leggings were for a budding mother. There was no indication on the tags. After all, the size translated to zero and they looked tiny.

I ventured to compare the price I paid in store to online as soon as I came home, yet I could not find the pants anywhere. It was not until I googled a description of the pants that something almost identical came up for the maternity section, and yet it was not the same as the pants I purchased. It was close enough though.

I wasn’t sure if the pants were for the pregnant or not. It’s like when medical professionals advise against looking up symptoms on web search engines. The results are not reliable.

Still, I was so disgusted by the idea of me buying a pair of maternity pants when I haven’t had my period in 2 years, that I ventured to return them less than 24-hours later, picking up the wrap denim skirt instead.

I had been eyeing the skirt for a long time. For one, it was almost a carbon copy of a denim wrap maxi skirt my mom used to own. It was also right on trend with the 90s scheme- my childhood and preadolescent era. It is timeless, classic, and a staple piece for my rustic-contemporary wardrobe. It personifies Americana.

George, the cashier, said that the pants were not maternity, and yet I couldn’t muster up the courage, If that’s what you call it, to keep the garment which wreaked so much havoc on my mind in the several hours that I owned the pair of leggings. The skirt was not an impulse purchase; I had wanted it for a long time. The size of the skirt was xsmall.

I don’t know what to think anymore.

I put on spandex leggings for the first time yesterday and my mother suddenly had no desire to speak to me. She thought I had lost weight. I didn’t. I gained. I think.

She tapped my shoulder blades that poked out from underneath my sweatshirt before announcing that she was going to the car, away from me.

I went out with the same leggings today and the amount of stares cast in my direction was unsavory to say the least.

The leggings, my mom said, were the reason for the stares. She advised me to wear dresses or skirts to cover up my legs. I asked her if she was embarrassed. She responded that she wasn’t, but that if I did not want to be stared at, it would be wise of me to not wear close-fitting clothes.

All that said, I’m back in my sweats and just in time for this unexpected cool-down in temperature. The less than 80-degree Fahrenheit highs in combination with the cloudy overcast skies, and my nightly watermelon eats that is equivalent to an internal AC, have made me feel like it’s fall.

Catching glimpses of the supermarket aisles, I saw bags of candy corn, plastic pumpkin baskets lined up in varying hues of Halloween colors: smoky grey, majestic purple, acid green.
I saw faux foliage of ashen yellows and glowing ambers, next to cutlery in the same color scheme for Thanksgiving.

I am overcome with sadness. A wave of whimpering threatened to escape my slightly parted mouth so that I could remember to breathe while preventing dryness.

Another outstanding interview, another person hired “internally” from within the company - someone who already knew all the senior editors. Another disappointment. Another prospect collapsing in on itself. Another season coming to its end without a task to complete.

As much as I am enamored by the fall season, I want for expectation. I need to look forward to something. I am not entitled but I can say that I deserve this much. “Make it happen,” I said, he said, she said, to no one in particular.