Dear Journal:
I never thought I’d see the day I enjoyed clothes shopping. I absolutely hated it when I was a kid. All it did was take up time I’d otherwise be playing. Even after I hit puberty, I never liked girly things like shopping, manicures, perms, and whatever else girls are supposed to do while they giggle and gossip. My sister, on the other hand, relished that shit. We both grew up tomboys, but I’m the only one who stayed that way. The only tomboy traits she kept were her athleticism and her potty mouth…otherwise, she’s pretty much a girly-girl.
As much as I’d like to be all high-and-mighty and pretend that I’m above all that petty consumerism and vanity, I’m willing to concede that a large part of my aversion to it comes from being fat. I can see the appeal of trying on clothes when you’re pretty and petite; however, being forced to stare at my bloated body while working through an endless series of overpriced outfits that, at best, will make me look blah, isn’t my idea of a good time.
Things were different last weekend. I knew I’d lost weight, but I wasn’t sure it would make a difference. There are a million words to describe a girl’s figure—petite, svelte, curvy, voluptuous, zaftig, plump, etc.—but only up to a point. Once you’re fat, degrees of subtlety go out the window. If you’re 200 pounds, you’re fat. If you’re 250 pounds, you’re fat. If you’re 300 pounds, you’re fat. Despite my weight loss, I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m still firmly in the fat fold.
Nobody but Dr. Chen had even said anything yet. I think mom and dad had noticed but hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe they weren’t 100% certain. Unlike when I used to strut around the house in tight clothes looking for affirmation of my self-destruction, they’d only seen me in the baggy hoodies and sweats I wore to school. With my checkered past, I can’t really blame them for not jumping to conclusions.
Anyway, Mom made up for lost time in the Dillards’ dressing room.
“How much weight have you lost?” she asked, handing me a size 18 sundress through the curtain. She’d already brought me the same one in a 20, but it swam on me.
“I have no idea,” I said.
Thankfully, we weren’t at home, or Mom probably would’ve marched me onto her bathroom scale. I could tell she wanted to say more. Something like “you look great” or “I’m proud of you,” but wisely realized that would be an awkward conversation to have with her semi-naked daughter through a dressing room curtain.
I have to give Mom credit. She made the day enjoyable. Had I been by myself, I would’ve floundered around the store like a fish out of water, but Mom had a keen eye for what suited me and what would fit. As soon as I finished with one outfit, she’d have another ready to go, so I never got bored or depressed. It was an assembly line even Henry Ford would’ve been proud of! (Sorry, I’m still in test-taking mode.)
Occasionally, I’d step out for a second opinion or affirmation that an outfit really looked as good on me as I thought it did, and mom enthusiastically obliged.
“Wow! That looks really good.”
“I love the way that brings out your eyes.”
“Uh-oh, watch out, boys!”
Sometimes, she’d chime in with generic observations unrelated to the clothes (“You have such nice skin” or “such a beautiful smile”). Of course, I gobbled it up the way I used to gobble up snack cakes. To her credit, I never felt like she was pandering, and to my credit, I never got sensitive or embarrassed when she turned her nose up at an outfit or pointed out a flaw. Even when she poked the “Buddha belly” one unfortunate pair of capris showed off.
Looking back, it was a bit cringy. I can’t imagine sissy doing anything but rolling her eyes if Mom told her she had nice skin or a beautiful smile. Then again, she’s always being told how great, smart, and beautiful she is. I guess I was so starved for compliments, it didn’t matter who was serving them.
So, unsurprisingly, Mom spent most of her time with me on our girls' shopping expedition, and our bonding was the main reason it was a success. Another was… what was the word Dr. Chen used? Shattenfreude? Bah, I hate not remembering. I’m going to go look it up, and I’ll be back with more deets later.
--Jessie