Mission impossible

You ever have one those experiences that just shocks you? Like a giant neon sign flicks on, reading, "Hello, clue over here!!!!"

I had one of those last week. It started out innocently enough- I went to Younker's to buy some make up for a friend's wedding. I made my purchase and was heading out the door when I was suddenly struck by the idea, "I'm gonna swing through the clothing section and see if they have anything cute for spring." Turns out, they did (Columbia has an incredible clothing line this year for women. Cute shirts, great pants- things that real people wear; not for those on the catwalk.) So, I load my arms and head to the dressing room. Now, let's preface the revelation by this statement: I know I've gained some weight since I've been married. Heck, I've gained some weight this winter. You'd have to be flat-out blind not to see it (or just not present for the daily mirror test before I shower. Come on, you know you do it too.)

Back to the dressing room. Shirts, no problem. They're a size up from what I normally wear, but the love handles aren't bulging too much and the muffin-top doesn't look too bad. You have to remember that if you've got extra fat, it doesn't go away when you put on a bigger shirt. It's just how much that shirt accentuates said fat. Here's the problem: the pants. Now, my jeans have become increasingly tight this winter (mostly in the waist and butt, the legs are fine) but I have found an amazing ability to rationalize this fact. They're shrinking in the wash, they're too old, I'm retaining water at the end of my shift, etc. My pair of "fat jeans" are suddenly my favorite things to put on. Who cares if I'm sweating as the temperature climbs- I can breathe!!! But, I digress. When I was loading my arms with clothes, I grabbed two different pant sizes- the ones I used to fit into, and the ones I'm guessing will now be my size. As I stuff myself into the ones that used to fit, I realize I'm not living in the days of "skinny pants"; can't even get them to button. All right, on with the "fat pants."

The light is starting to dawn, and my heart sinks. The "fat pants" come on. Oh no- they're tight too. Like, I can breathe, but just barely, and my butt kinda looks like someone gave me a wedgie. I stare at myself in the mirror and decide: I have to go up a size. You would have thought someone just made me a spy and handed me a secret mission. I sneak out to the rack, furtively search for (gulp) bigger pants, find them, and bolt back to my dressing room. On they go. Whaddya know- they fit. I can breathe, there's minimal muffin-top, and my waist, butt, and hips are loving the extra room. I flip over the tag and stare at the number. I think, "this can't be. I have never been this fat IN. MY. LIFE. I CANNOT be seriously contemplating buying pants this size." Enter logic: why buy pants that don't fit, you don't want to be miserable wearing them, they'll probably shrink again in the wash anyway. Vanity: but they're THAT size, and I can't buy pants that size, blah blah blah. I sink to the floor of the dressing room, stare at myself in the mirror, and begin to cry.

Please hear me: this is not a pity party. I don't know who the heck is going to read this, but all I'm doing is relating one woman's lifelong battle of the bulge. My weight fluctuates (whose doesn't?) but the real issue here is pride. It's a number on a tag, for heaven's sake. In no way does it define who I am. Okay, so I'm overweight, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm a child of the King. The God of the universe would have died for me if I was the only person living and I know he doesn't care what size my pants are.

I can speak truth to myself all day long, but the problem is, I don't believe it. I came home and sobbed on my husband's shoulder. At first, I couldn't tell him what was wrong. Finally, I manage to gasp out, "I had to buy bigger pants." For the life of him, he couldn't understand what the big deal was. My husband is a wonderful guy, but some things just don't make sense to the opposite sex. He suggests I call one of my best friends. "NO!!!!" I yell. "I am NOT going to talk to my skinny friend about the fact that I'm on par with a beached whale!"

Enter horrible fact number two: unless I do something, my pride is going to block me from receiving help and support. I know for fact that women out there are literally killing themseleves today to be thin, whether it's a slow death with the latest get-skinny-quick-fad or suicide because they can't handle what they've become. I just want to be healthy, whatever that means. I don't know how to do it but I need to learn.

If I could say one thing to you, whoever you are reading this, it would be that you are more than the color of your hair, the size number on your clothes, and the paint on your face. Whether you believe in Him or not, the God who made you loves every part of you and wants you to do the same. He desires freedom for us; freedom from shame, guilt, depression, fear, anything that separates us from Him. I don't know yet how not to identify my self-worth with the size of my clothes, but I'm going to learn.

Will you join me?