Ok folks, today was not pretty. I went through everything in my closet and my drawers with a “take no prisoner” approach. I decided to rip the band-aid off quickly, rather than stroll down memory lane remembering how cute I once looked in that dress (too bad I didn’t realize it at the time.)
Thanks to the onset of perimenopause, my cute days are over.
Ladies, I know you feel my pain, so I am going to vent for a minute if you don’t mind:
I am 30 pounds heavier than I should be (40 if I were at my fighting weight). I no-joke look 5 months pregnant, and end each day with swollen ankles. If I hadn’t had my tubes tied, I would swear that I was one of those girls you see on Jerry Springer who was pregnant and didn’t know until she was in labor. One day last week I even contemplated, for a hot-second, buying a pregnancy test, but quickly came to my senses.
I’m 47, this is mid-life. It sort of sucks. At least parts of it. I am 100% being truthful when I tell you that I try to focus on all of the good I have in my life; my health, my family, my friends, my career, my community, the list is endless. However, I’d be lying if I said that not fitting into my baggy jeans doesn’t sting just a tad.
So instead of wallowing (not my jam), I pulled every cute top, jeans, skirt and dress that once looked great, and put them in a bag to donate to my friend who shall remain nameless, but has yet to enter this wonderful rite of passage called menopause.
After the closet was complete, I headed over to the dresser. A good number of these items went directly into the donate pile, since they were mainly t-shirts, pjs and workout wear (although I did sneak some of my cute Lululemon tops into her goody bag).
Anything that wasn’t donate-worthy went directly into the recycle pile.
In the end, I had 2 bags to donate, a small pile of clothes to recycle, and two empty drawers! Yes, two!
Instead of looking to re-fill them, I asked Josh if he needed any extra space, which he didn’t, so I am leaving them alone for now.
Trust me, I am in no hurry to run out to buy fat-girl clothes. It doesn’t have the same appeal as rewarding yourself with a new pair of skinny jeans after losing 10 lbs. So I’ll manage with rotating through the same 5 or 6 things that still fit me, and honestly, I am fine with it.
As depressing as today could have been, I really was fine. Staring at a closet full of clothes that once fit, but probably never will again (let’s be honest), is way worse than having a Come-To-Jesus talk with myself about paying it forward to the skinny folk who still fit into a size 4 or 6.
NEXT UP: Overseeing the girls SBO their rooms-this should be fun. Stay tuned!