This is a story of shame.
I am a girl who likes to select her outfit for the next day ahead of time, but due to my tendency toward procrastination, "ahead of time" typically means 2:30 AM the night before.
So there I am, 2:30 in the morning, looking in my closet, wondering what clothes to wear, knowing full well that they have to be "clinically appropriate." It dawns on me that I've mainly been wearing a pair of grey corduroy pants on days when I have SLP-related business to do. However, at that very moment, I am wearing those grey corduroys, which means they are out of the running for the next day. I panic.
Why? Because my mid-section is slightly larger in circumference that it was last month. (Sidenote: I am not pregnant, though if you were to take a look at my eating habits over the last few weeks, you may question that statement.)
I pull a pair of pants off a hanger to see if my panic is warranted and find out it is. Pair after pair, I'm pulling pants from hangers and tossing them aside.
Oh God! What now?
Well, being that it's nearing 3:00 AM, there are two options, but I've already made a stop at Meijer earlier that evening to pick up some vegetables, and everyone knows that only crazy ladies visit the same store multiple times within a 24-hour period. Looks like I'm heading to Wal-Mart.
So there I am in the women's clothing section at Wal-Mart, quite possibly one of the most depressing places in the world, a little disappointed at the turn my Monday evening/Tuesday morning has taken.
No wait! Go back about 20 minutes. Before I leave the house, but after I've put on my coat, scarf, and gloves.
I walk into the bathroom, and as I grab a hair tie off the counter, my foot ever-so-slightly nudges the scale sitting next to the toilet. Our scale is a tempered glass affair from IKEA that I recently moved from the slightly roomier half bathroom near the kitchen to the slightly cramped full bathroom where I'd be likely to use it more often. In retrospect, that decision to make the move to the cramped quarters of the full bath was questionable, to say the least.
So my foot ever-so-slightly nudges the scale, but the scale hits the bottom of the toilet. And shatters. Here stands Heather, too fat to fit into any of her pants, and she literally just broke her scale. I just about lose my shit, when Joe walks out of the bedroom, half asleep, wondering what the noise was. It is at this point, I determine, I have totally failed at life.
Back to Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart has approximately two styles of pants that are not jeans, and they are both awful. One is so tapered that I'm not even sure how you could get your foot through the leg hole, and the other is a papery feeling pair of khakis. Being that I hardly need to emphasize the width of my midsection by decreasing the width at my ankles, I grabbed a pair of the khakis and walked over to the fitting room.
You find out interesting things at Wal-Mart at 3:00 AM. Things like the fitting room is closed until 7:00 AM.
I walk back over to the rack of khakis, grab the next size up, walk to the register and pay for my pants of shame.
I get home and find out that at least the smaller of the two pairs is enough to contain the vast expanse of my hips. It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.