I hate shopping. Not all of it, mind you. I like perusing shoes or finds for the kids and house. When it comes to clothes shopping for myself, however, I’d rather stab myself in the thigh with a fork.
It wasn’t always like this. I was actually in the best body shape I had ever been in before I gained 50 dogged pounds with my last pregnancy. I was wearing size 6 jeans. I’m not saying what size I am now, but I laugh in the face of my former size 6. The thing is, the majority of my extra weight is located across my middle. It’s not proportioned whatsoever. Finding pants that fit right is about impossible and aggravating. What slides past my knees won’t button around my waist. What does button is like a potato sack everywhere else.
My mom wanted to take me shopping for my birthday, though. That’s how horrendous my wardrobe had become, apparently. So I had to bite the bullet. Because what says happy birthday better than a day of wallowing depression.
I skimmed through racks. I fondled fabric. I looked at sizes. I felt defeated.
We spent 2 hours walking around a single store and I almost came away with nothing. I wanted to quit. I wanted to cry.
I finally found a few things, but I had to wander into the plus-size department to do it. Which leads me to think if my mom wants to take me shopping for clothes while I’m still carrying this extra weight (can I still blame the baby? no?), I’ll tell her to buy me a fork to stab myself with instead.