Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Number 12

197 lbs. Okay, I can handle an 8 oz. gain.

At the grocery store today, the self-checkout couldn’t tell the difference between cucumbers ($1.59 each) and purple asparagus ($5.99 lb.). Yes, I punched the right button. If a “Smart Scan” device cannot differentiate between cukes and asparagus, we have nothing to fear from Skynet. Any terminator gunning for Linda Hamilton is going to end up shooting Sarah Palin.

Okay, so normally, the increase would make me pretty grouchy, but it’s only 8 oz.  Actually, now that I think about it, there really shouldn’t have been a gain since I lack arm strength to lift a fork to my mouth.  Encouraging things happened shortly after my morning weigh-in that made that a very minor irritation.

I opted to go to the 8 AM yoga class today owing to an unchangeable appointment during the usual time (Sorry, Lila) and Amy got a chance to work me over with her yoga-lates (yoga and Pilates blend. Between yesterday’s beating from Torquemada and today, The Great White Belly thinks I’m trying to kill it. It’s right). I went to pull on my size 16 jeans and…

They’re too big.

These are Calvin Klein, no elastic, an honest size 16. And I can pull the damned things on and off without unzipping. There’s room to spare AROUND THE WAIST (that’s the sticking point) once they’re on. Seriously, I was concerned about putting anything in my pockets in case I ended up with them falling off my ass (yes, I know sagging is in, but I’m not part of that culture. I buy good quality underwear, but nobody’s going to see it).

Holy cow. I only got these things in late February and they fit at that point.

Armed with the confidence (perhaps over confidence) of this development, I headed to Nordstrom Rack to test the waters for blue jeans.

There is a scene in “Tootsie” where Dustin Hoffman describes his experience clothes shopping that afternoon. “These women are animals,” he says as he’s styling a wig, “There was this one handbag. I was afraid to get it. The woman who got it, I know did time.” (well, not a verbatim quote). Such is the feeling of a sale at Nordstrom Rack.  I got jostled and elbowed. I can’t be sure, but I think I caught a whiff of blood in the air.

We won’t go over the stupidity or deliberate cruelty of somebody restocking the little 25 waist jeans into the Plus Size 24 rack (Honey, if you cannot tell by simply eyeballing what’s in your hand that it doesn’t belong where you’re about to put it, you really should not be out without adult supervision. Seriously. On the other hand, if you did this on purpose, I hope to God and His Infinite Power that you get to experience and feel the casual cruelty you are perpetrating. And Cee-Lo Green to you).  I wanted a pair of Calvin Klein jeans in size 14 and a pair of the NYDJ (Not Your Daughter’s Jeans) Tummy Tuck jeans in size 14 and size 12.

Yeah, size 12. According to Schoolhouse Rock, 3 is a magic number (Schoolhouse Rock should be part of every American household. They’re on DVD and far superior to any current television offerings for kids). I respect that view, however, when you are 1) female and 2) working your ass off (literally, as it were), 12 is a magic number. 12 is the topmost “normal” size. 12 is not in the Plus department. Lane Bryant’s (on whom I spit) does not carry size 12. It’s too small. The NYDJ Tummy Tucks allow the wearer to maybe go a size smaller than her normal jean size (I say “her” because, after all, these are jeans for women. If a man is wearing them, chances are he’d prefer you referred to him as “she” and he’s got more to tuck than the tummy).  My main jeans are NYDJ Tummy Tuck 14 and were purchased at the same time as the “too loose” Calvin Kleins.

The Calvin Klein size 14 fit. Comfortably. However, these things were fugly (patches, ripping, raggedy capri hems that Laura Petrie wouldn’t be caught dead in. Neither would I).  I was emboldened.

The NYDJ size 14 fit and were cut smaller through the thighs and seat than my current pair. Okay. I stepped into the 12s. Would I be bursting into tears of joy?

Not this week. Where I could pull them up and pull them almost closed, they’re just out of reach.

But that’s okay. A month ago, I couldn’t have even pulled them up. Today, I could. This is serious progress. And the fact that the straight up, no hocus pocus size 14 jeans FIT is a very, very big deal. Yeah, okay, I’m slightly over where I was yesterday, but I now have evidence, STRONG evidence that The Great White Belly is melting and it’s not due to global warming.  This is the whole point. That thing has been the bane of my existence for years. Even though you are told to love yourself and, by extension, your whole body  in order to improve it, I could not bring myself to love that expanse of white blubbery flesh. I could not love seeing it protrude farther than my breasts (which are not small). I could not love the additional risk of metabolic disorders that it carried. I could not love the limitations it imposed: the inability to paint my own toenails because it got in the way, the clothing I could not wear not only because it wasn’t available in my size, but also because it accentuated the monstrosity it covered.  I could not love the license it gave those around me to be cruel under the guise of “caring” about my health and appearance.

Today, though, I got a boost of motivation to continue. I’ll let Torquemada and Lila and Amy continue to torture me.  I’ll put off having another hot dog (sigh) for 90 days. Same for a glass of wine.  I will follow the recommendations of that Pushy Peanut (Torquemada).

And maybe, just maybe, in two weeks, those size 12 jeans will fit.

Your Choices Are A Tent or Elasticized Potato Sack

200.6 lbs. for 3 days in a row. It’s better than 202.

I recognize the need for movement as part of a health improvement plan. I can walk all day (and have proven this). However, there are a couple of strikes against a daily constitutional: 1) I come in two shades: white and brick red. Red hurts. I am allergic to most sunscreen (except for heavy duty baby sunblock. Anybody who says that the higher range SPF is useless should try spending the day in my skin with one half covered in SPF and half in SPF 55 and then report back) and 2) not a lot of great options for walking around the block in my current neighborhood. There is a high school nearby that was the scene of a nationally covered drive-by shooting a couple of years back. It does tend to put a crimp into focusing on the walk if you’re constantly looking over your shoulder.

Luckily, there is a sizeable mall within easy driving distance (A couple of miles). 2 levels, lots of space to cover.  I just have to leave the credit cards somewhere else. I can maintain a fairly good clip and have to resist the temptation to shove slowpokes and sudden stoppers out of the way. I also have to resist the temptation to reward myself at the food court, but it’s doable.

As my old exercise clothes no longer fit (yippee!), I tried to get some of the new Easy Tone line by Reebok. Use of “tried” will indicate, to those who read between the lines, a lack of complete success. The largest size available is XL. According to most companies, XL should fit a size 16, The jeans I bought a few weeks ago (which are loose) are 16. Other items of clothing that I’ve brought out of retirement are XL and fit. The Reebok web site doesn’t have information on the sizing of its products, nor was I able to get anyone on the phone from customer service (despite a reply email from them telling me I should talk to customer service to ask about sizing when I had contacted them in December. I stopped buying Reebok sneakers because they would fall apart at the seams within 2-3 moths of purchase. Nikes last). Anyway, Dick’s Sporting Goods website had sizing information and it looked like I would fit. The pants are as tight as Spandex on Mariah Carey’s big ass, but they fit. The top, on the other hand, I couldn’t even get it over my head. XL, my ass. And I double-checked the label.  Reebok has a strange notion of who wears extra-large clothing.  Luckily, Fila has a similar, more generous sizing and lower cost. We’ll see if the top I ordered will fit.

You know, people look at the overweight and the obese and judge us harshly. I have written about the parking lot encounter with the woman telling me that her nearly hitting me head-on was because I’m angry at being fat. I remember, after a hot tub soak to ease a nasty muscle pull, as I left the pool area, I heard a teenaged boy refer to me as a “hammer thrower.”  These are total stranger.

I have had relatives (who lack any sense of taste or style for starters) who have lost weight (and it was temporary) force their ugly, lumpy poly-blend wardrobe dregs onto me, usually with a verbal swipe at how I was larger than they were and maybe I think about doing the same thing they were. Oh, and by the way, a few months down the road and they had to shop for replacement lumps in the old sizes.

Buying clothing in larger sizes is no fun, particularly for women. A lot of designers don’t  make clothing over size 12 or size 14 or if they do, it’s as expensive as their main line, but lacks the style , quality or elegance of the smaller clothes. Plus-sizes bathing suits tend to be garish and “cleverly” designed with little skirts or other additional fabric to hide lumps, bumps and bulges. 

If you have a fashion sense, this is hell and Lane Bryant is the ninth level. I don’t think there’s a single thread of natural fiber within 500 yards of the place. The clothing is poorly made (a bra that was supposed to be an answer to the La Mystere available at Nordstroms chafed my skin raw and broke down like a Reebok sneaker. This was even after it had been fitted by a sales lady) and there seems to be more emphasis on signing up new credit card holders than making customers happy. Even the accessories are cheap and over priced.

Buying jeans is a challenge because there’s an assumption that if you have to wear the larger sizes, you have a big stomach (I do) and big hips and thighs (I don’t). The “apple” shaped body presents greater challenges than the pear, besides the greater health risks.  If I buy jeans that fit my waist, there’s room for an extra butt cheek and the thighs of a Budweiser Clydesdale. However, the day 4 years ago I pulled on a pair of Michael Kors jeans and they fit all over, I nearly cried. And when I saw the price tag ($100), I did cry. But I bought them. And when they wore out,  Not Your Daughter’s Jeans, which not only came in my size, but were constructed with a “tummy tuck” panel that minimizes the stomach (you can even go a size smaller in them).

To all the designers (like Giorgio Valente, the first designer jeans guy refused to make larger sizes because he believed “fat people don’t deserve them”) who refuse to make bigger fashionable clothes: Hey, the American size is headed upward, not down and you are cutting yourselves out of a market. Plus, our money spends just as well as the skinny bitches’ does.

There was a time when clothing was designed around the shape of women’s bodies. I think the trend has shifted to women working hard to re-design their bodies to fit the clothes.  We went from corsets and panniers to corsets and hoop skirts to corsets and bustles to bras and Iron Maiden girdles (by the way, my loving mother bought my first girdle for me when I was 12 years old and I was forced to wear it all day to my cousin’s wedding. Not only was I incredibly uncomfortable all day, I was secure in the knowledge that I was the only pre-teen wearing foundation garments, probably on the Eastern Seaboard). Ever since I took charge of what I wear, I have refused girdles (and I’ve had the two generations above me pushing me to make them a daily part of my wardrobe). Control top panty hose practically up to my armpits, yes. A girdle? No. Never. I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t wear the sexy little Band Aids that Victoria’s Secret models wear over their alleged breasts, but I’ll be damned if I go through my day thoroughly miserable so that someone else can feel comfortable about my appearance.  The only time I’ve worn Spanx was when I needed to put together an outfit to look like an Oscar for a costume party (I won a prize, too). It was only a few hours, but it was torturous.

So, tomorrow, I will strap on my Tone Up sneakers (MBTs, not the Skecher knock-offs. Even if I had been considering Skechers, I will not buy them as they have hired a Whoredashian as their face) and work to get my measurements within range of normal.

140 lbs, here I come.