While I’m not a big fan of numbers, I just did the math for you guys because you’re special snowflakes and realized, much to my horror, that I’ve been pregnant and/or breastfeeding and/or losing the baby weight for five years now. Two kids, seventy pounds gained (and lost) over five years.
When I first got pregnant with my son, I was desperately afraid I was going to miscarry. So instead of carefully packing my clothes away, I just piled them into a big Tupperware bin and shoved them into the back of my closet. It was kind my own way of not jinxing myself. If I kept the clothes nearby, they’d ward off any problems with the pregnancy. Yeah, pregnancy hormones made me REALLY rational.
Anyway, I didn’t miscarry, but I did pile on the pounds, which didn’t miraculously evaporate off. I bought a number of sizes as I worked my way back down to my starting pre-pregnancy weight. I was within ten pounds of that weight when I got pregnant again.
Now, I’m done with babies (until my Love Child with a Famous Person). I’m within a couple pounds of my pre-pregnancy weight. My kids are in preschool and I have my days free to work. Or watch dancing cat videos. Whatever.
The first order of business was to purge the hell out of my life. Starting with my closet.
I know that purging is stressful for a lot of people. I’ve always found it to be particularly invigorating; a way of separating out who I was from who I am, the past from the present, and getting rid of all of the extra emotional baggage that stuff carries.
Those pants over there, mocking me every time I see them because I’m no longer a size four? Well, they can’t hold any power over me if I donate them to someone who actually IS a size four. Same with that curling iron that makes me feel like I should take better care of my appearance. I’ll give it away to someone who will actually use it. It’s doing me no good.
Likewise, that cute halter top that was adorable in the store but on, it makes my boobs look like they’re lopsided loaves of bread, what was I holding onto that for? The day that my boobs would magically change shape and look like I hadn’t nursed three kids? Or was I actually going to get off my ass to take it to the tailor? Yeah. Right.
Gone, baby, gone.
Every time I clean out my closet, it’s a chance for me to realize who I actually am, not who I think I should be. It’s a chance for me to be honest with myself and realize that the days when I’d wear a belt with my name proudly displayed on the buckle are FAR from over.
But, I do have some size four pants, a baby-doll shirt that says, “KITTEN,” and a couple of curling irons. I’ll even throw in some emotional baggage, no charge.
The BECKY Belt, though, that stays.