Ok, I know you really well. You’re a flippin’ size TWO. As in uno, dos. Two. I originally bought a size six, only to have it fall to my ankles in a most unladylike manner.
I exchanged the elephant-sized skirt for you, perfect, darling size two blue corduroy skirt that cost me sixteen whole dollars on sale at The Gap in 1999.
You made me feel skinny yet elegant. You sat saucily at my hips. You looked great with boots. We took on the world.
I’ve been afraid to wear you this year. Things have changed. Things like … my waist.
I needed a power outfit today. I was dreading work, and I knew only you could help me face the day with well-dressed zeal.
You still look good with boots.
You don’t still look good with me.
And after spending an entire day with your waistband like a rubber band around the lower regions of my ribcage, I hate you. Because hating you is a more immediate payoff than, say, actually losing some weight.
So, you’re going in the back of the closet. We’re not breaking up – not yet. But, we’re taking a break. I can’t give my love to anyone who makes me feel so bad about myself. For now, you can just hang in the closet and think about what you’ve done.