Out of the Closet

The closet. It seems a safe enough place, right? I mean, most people don't even consider it a room in their house. It's merely an afterthought. Just a place to store things that need to hang up or other items that need to be put away.

However, if you were to peek inside the closet of a fat chick, you would realize that there's much more to the story.

The closet of a fat chick is divided into three very specific categories. First, there's the clothing that you wear. Second, there's the clothing that you can no longer wear, but know deep in your heart that if you skipped a few breakfasts and walked to the mailbox a couple of times you could squeeze into. The third and final section is the clothing that we know that we will probably never ever fit into again, but are too emotionally attached to throw out.

Recently, every event that calls for me to put on clothing other than pajamas presents the same quandary. Nothing fits. Now, I'm no stranger to this predicament, but I'm used to it going in the opposite direction. Usually, I'm lying on the bed, holding my breath until I'm purple, and attempting to use Jedi mind tricks on the zipper to get it to close.

However, that's not the case anymore. Now I'm faced with the fact that nearly everything I own is too big. I have jeans that I can literally take off and put back on without ever unbuttoning or unzipping them. I have actually lost my scrub pants as I walked toward the front door on my way to work. Most days, I look like a little kid wearing her mommy's clothes.

Before I started losing weight, I was definitely under the impression that bigger, looser clothing could hide all my little sins. Because, seriously, who could tell that I had eaten a whole half gallon of cookie dough ice cream under that 3x t-shirt? It was that reasoning that often led my to buy shirts that could have easily passed for a circus tent. It was also that reasoning that kept me wearing maternity tops that didn't obviously look like maternity tops, even though my youngest child was three years old.

However, since I've lost 14% of my body weight, I've come to realize something rather startling. When I wear really baggy clothes now, I look fatter than I really am. Could it be that this has been the truth all along, and I was tricking myself into believing that my food indiscretions were safe under the cover of enormous clothing? Or is it possible that I'm so proud of my shrinking body that I want to show it off now?

This line of thinking lead me to the events that occurred this evening at approximately 5:45 pm.

I was supposed to work third shift tonight at the hospital. I slept all day in preparation, and work up at 5pm to get ready to go perform my duties as the nurse extraordinaire. I had just walked into the bathroom when my husband knocked on the door. "Work called. They said that the census is down, and they won't need you tonight."

I love getting those calls. It means that I get to sit at home and still earn a paycheck. Life doesn't get too much better than that.

I skipped happily out of the bathroom and dove back under the covers. "That's great," I told my husband. "Because I'm still a little sleepy and I'm gonna go back to bed."

His reply was, "I was kind of hoping we could go out and do something tonight, since the boys are with my mom and dad."

It is indeed a rare occasion when we are able to go out and do something alone. I've been planning just such an occasion for a while now, but it had not come to fruition. "How about dinner and a movie?" I asked hopefully.

"Sounds great," said the hubs, and I bolted back out of bed, and went to look up show times.

We found a movie that we both wanted to see, and I had about 25 minutes to get ready. Since I had already showered early that morning, it would just require me brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and fixing my hair. Basically, all I had to do was make myself presentable.

I went into our bedroom and put on one of the three pairs of jeans that I own that I can depend on not to expose me to the general public. Then came the shirt. What to wear, what to wear?

The first article of clothing my eyes fell upon was a grey t-shirt emblazoned with the South Carolina state logo and an old-timey "Welcome to Myrtle Beach" sign. I love that shirt, but it is a 3x and is definitely more than just a little large on me. So that's out.

The next item I spied was a beautiful grey sweater that my mom and dad had bought me for Christmas. It's gorgeous, and it really fits me and looks good on me. "Uh, honey," I heard a tentative voice behind me call out. "It's seventy degrees outside. You're going to burn up in that." So that's out.

I picked up a royal blue t-shirt that my parents had brought me back from their recent cruise to the Bahamas. I hadn't worn it yet, and thought that maybe I'd give it a spin. But then the thought occurred to me that this would be the first night in months that me and my husband had been able to have a date night. I might want to wear something a little more becoming. So that was out.

Then, I spied it. What it was doing out of it's place in the "probably never again" section of my closet I'll never know. But it was lying there on a shelf, spotlighted, with a chorus of angels singing backup. My blue camo Abercrombie & Fitch ringer T.

You see, when I was a sophomore in college, I found The Shirt at the mall on a clearance rack. I had never actually shopped in Abercrombie before, because I just figured that none of their clothes would fit me. But it was okay. I was perfectly happy to go in there and drool over the dead sexy men that worked/shopped/romped there. But when I was there with one of my skinny friends, I came across The Shirt. It is two shades of dark blue camo, with a navy ringer collar. Nothing spectacular, but it was Abercrombie, it fit, and it was $7.99. Needless to say, The Shirt went home with me.

After that, me and The Shirt went everywhere together. We went to dance clubs, we went to karaoke bars, we went to frat parties. The Shirt and I even made a concert appearance together. Good times. Definitely good times.

But shortly after leaving college, The Shirt didn't fit anymore. I had so many fond memories that I couldn't let it go. That is why it moved from dorm to apartment to house to another house with me.

So I stood there in my bedroom, staring at The Shirt and wondering if it there was any possible way that I could fit into it without looking like a sausage. I bit my lower lip as my mind raced. I peeked around the room like someone about to commit a crime, and then I quickly jerked The Shirt on and turned around to face our huge mirror.

OhmygodohmygodohmygodOHMYGOD! It fit! It not only fit, but I thought it looked decent on! Holy crap! I can wear The Shirt again!

I gasped and squealed and jumped up and down. My husband came running into the room to see what was going on. I composed myself and said, "Honestly, you are in the cone of safety here. Does what I'm wearing look okay? Because if it doesn't, please don't let me walk out of the house in it."

Then he said the words every girl longs to hear. "It looks great on you."

Can I get a hallelujah?

So I wore The Shirt out tonight. Granted, it's used to seeing a lot more action than dinner at a Mexican restaurant and a movie. There wasn't even any alcohol involved. But I'm sure that The Shirt didn't care about any of that.

The Shirt was finally out of the closet, and I'm sure that's all it cared about.