Let’s hear it for the boy
As James and I were walking to the post office yesterday (we often do this at lunchtime), a woman caught up with us and said, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to embarass you, but did you know you have a big rip in your skirt?”
Needless to say, I did not.
I turned the skirt around and, sure enough, about three inches of the back seam had busted open. I was mortified. Not only had a stranger had to point out to me that I’d been walking through the center of Lakeville, that bustling metropolis, with my underwear showing, but it also meant that this skirt was, as I feared, not large enough to cover my nether region.
I’ve been trying to lose weight, on and off, for at least a year. I blamed the weight gain on writing my thesis, but since I’ve been done with that for over a year, I really don’t have an excuse any more. Since the engagement, I’ve been tackling weight loss head on. I’ve been working out four to five times a week, trying to eat more vegetables and fewer boxes of Annie’s mac and cheese, and only allowing myself a drink once a week.
Since the engagement, which was March 7, four months ago, I have lost 5 pounds.
5.
I put on that skirt yesterday morning relieved that I had something that fit. I bought more clothes as my weight crept up, but I didn’t want to buy a whole new wardrobe. One, I can’t afford it. Two, I want to wear the pounds of clothes I have sitting in the attic. So when I found this skirt in the closet and was able to pull it up over my hips, I was relieved. Something from the old stack that I could wear.
Then I ripped it. Probably because I insist in sitting on my legs in strange ways in my office chair. This causes the material to stretch over my rump. Or, in this case, to rip when it cannot accomodate said rump.
I plunged immediately into the pits of body loathing. I hated my hips and butt with such fierceness at that moment. And I mentioned some of this out loud to James.
He told me to stop. Cut me off. He didn’t want to hear it.
Which, of course, made me even madder. Now I had someone to direct my anger at other than myself.
We fought the entire way back from the post office, as we got into the car and on the entire drive home to change my clothes. When I finally ripped off the skirt and started actually crying, James’s demeanor changed. He took me in his arms and told me that he really does think that I’m beautiful and always has. He told me how proud he is of me and my exercising and changing food habits. He told me he admires my willpower. And he told me that my body is changing, that I’m getting firmer in some places and smaller in others, even if I can’t see it. He pointed out that I probably couldn’t have even gotten that skirt on at all a few months ago. He told me not to give up, because he could see improvements in my mood and energy that he linked to the exercise.
James talks a lot about wanting our marriage to be a partnership. I think that’s a fabulous way to look at marriage, but a lot of times I don’t really understand what that means. Yesterday, he showed me. When I was at a real low, he picked me up. That’s what partnership is about — filling in the gaps when the other person needs it.
