Ye Olde Jeans Test

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'There were a million things that I had to do yesterday: meet deadlines, run errands, defrost the fridge...  But in the middle of trying to cram everything into a day, something kept distracting me.  Whatever I did, however many times I paced across my room, my eyes always, always fell back to them: those jeans I fished out from the recesses of my closet.  I wondered: Is it time?  Is today the day when I’d fit into them again?', '

I call them my “Guess What” jeans.  Straight out of Baclaran, a relic from my early 20s.  I gave in and I pulled the jeans on.  I started to give them a hard tug only to realize I didn’t have to.  They actually fit!  So what if I started having trouble breathing since I buttoned up?  I’ve dieted for months and I’ve logged in a fair amount of time on the treadmill.  With a little more work, I’d be down to my waistline when I was 23.  Not bad, not bad.  So what if I wasn’t anywhere near a size 2 even then? 

Women would hate to admit it, but I’m sure, most of us have a pair of jeans that we can’t throw away even if they haven’t fit us for the longest time.  Some keep jeans from college.  Others, real sticklers for self- flagellation, keep a pair from high school.  Once in a while, they come out of the closet and we measure our self worth by how far we get the jeans to fit.  If they reach our actual waists, we’re fabulous.  If they can only reach up to the tops of our legs, we’re disgusting.

Take me for instance.  Not one to rest on my laurels, I decided to dig out the khakis that haven’t seen the light of day in five years.  I pulled at them until they passed my hips.  There was more pulling, sweat, and maybe a few drops of blood were spilled but I couldn’t bring the two sides of the waistband together however hard I tried.  It was as if the left side was Montague and the right was Capulet, and never the twain shall meet.  Not only did I end up with a sore abdomen, but I hated my body a little more than when I started off.

I tried to justify what happened.  I only did get to wear those khakis post-Atkins anyway, so  it was an unnatural time, body-wise for me.  So I could be forgiven for not fitting into them, right?

I stopped and wondered why am I being so hard on myself?  Carrying a few extra pounds does not make me less of a person.  Why am I making such a big deal about it?  But then, if you’ve been reminded of this shortcoming everyday for years, it becomes a habit to beat yourself up for it.

I was skinny when I was a kid.  At 8, I took swimming lessons and suddenly developed a ravenous appetite that made my weight creep up the scales.  I didn’t see anything horribly wrong with my new girth, but I found myself shunning sleeveless tops way before puberty just to be safe.  But at 11, I saw this pretty red and white sleeveless dress in a department store.  It had diagonal stripes in the bodice which my mother’s fashion magazines said would both camouflage and flatter, so I thought, it wouldn’t be so bad.  The first time I wore it to church, the pastor’s wife, who had never spoken to me up to that point, went out of her way to approach me.  Her hand shot out and went straight for my arm, which she jiggled vigorously while saying, “Ang taba-taba mo!”  For a pre-teen with a fragile body imagine, this was the worst thing that could happen.  I saw some of my classmates at Sunday school turn to watch my humiliation.  I tried to wrestle myself free, but she had a firm grasp of me and jiggled my arm for what seemed like an eternity.  I ended up never wearing that dress again. 

I dread bumping into acquaintances because inevitably, after the initial salutations comes the inevitable, “uy, tumaba ka!”  A lot of people don’t seem to think it rude to comment on someone else’s weight.  In fact, there are people who act as if it’s their duty to inform you’ve put on the pounds, just in case you don''t have any mirrors in your home.  I have this theory that judging people by their weight is the last acceptable prejudice.  Those guilty of this bias probably don’t find it important to find out if I’m a person of character.  More often than not, they just want to know what’s wrong with me, why can’t I seem to lose this blubber?  Am I lazy?  Am I depressed?  Do I use food as an emotional crutch?

But how''s this as an explanation: I simply like food.  I like eating.  I like experiencing different textures and flavors.  It reminds me that even though I am shy, I can still go out and try new things and celebrate life.  Sure this probably means I would never, ever be skinny.  But if if Bridget Jones can make peace with the fact that whatever she does, she''ll always be a little bit fat, I can deal with that too.  And if one day, I''ll cross paths with a barrister in a reindeer jumper who''ll tell me that he likes me the way I am, that''ll be a nifty little bonus...