Is it just me, or do other women out there have about 50 pairs of jeans all ranging in different sizes?
Jen’s Jean Sizes.
“I will never look this good again.”
“Makes my butt look like J-Lo.”
“Need to lose ten pounds”
“Need to lose twenty pounds.”
“Too far gone from fat jeans.”
I know I am not the only one out there, right? So, this morning I wake up bright and early for work. Just like every morning, I am tired. I am not a morning person and will never be a morning person.
Haphazardly, I stumble to the bathroom, jump in the shower, and get dressed. It is a “Fat Jeans” kind of day. It just is. No explanation needed.
I wriggle into my Fat Jeans.
Hmm. This is not right. I mean usually, with my Fat Jeans I can just slip them on with ease while throwing on a belt on to keep them up. These bad boys were not going over my hips without me having to unbutton and unzip. I was mad. Mostly mad at myself. How is it that I am now at the point where my Fat jeans do not even fit?
Needless to say, I had a less than a stellar morning at work. I was annoyed, moody and felt less than. Less than what, I am not sure. Probably “less than” these stupid expectations I put on myself.
On my lunch break, I ran to the restroom. Once again, I wriggle every which way just to well, you know, use the restroom. It was in between the moment of “I may dislocate my hip” and “How many squats will it take to stretch these bad boys out” that I realized something.
Hmmm. How could this be? Taking a closer look, I realized that my “Fat Jeans” were not, in fact, my “Fat Jeans” they were the “Need to lose ten pounds” jeans.
After questioning myself on how I could be so dumb to not notice the tag size, my mood suddenly changed. I was happy, giddy, and may have even shouted a “Thank You, Jesus” proclamation.
My Fat Jeans are not tight on me! This is even better, I am thisclose to goal. At least that is what my jeans say, right?
Leaving the restroom, making the walk and perhaps “happy dance” back to my classroom, it hit me. All day long, I allowed a number to dictate my mood. I allowed what I thought was a number on a pair of worn and torn comfy jeans to define me. I mean what is up with that?
My weight did not change between the hours of 6am and 12pm. What changed was my mood, my mood based on some ridiculous number that I gave power too.
My trials and tribulations, my character, my story, that defines me. Not a label, not a number, and not another person.
Confidence comes in all shapes and sizes, as does beauty, strength, and courage. I think what needs to happen, at least for me, is I need to go through all 50 pairs of jeans that range in about eight different sizes and take a scissor to the tag.
Because what I have learned in the span of today is that the only “size” that matters, is One Size Fits All.