I grew out of my jeans today.
I have been wearing them for over two years, and somehow I still feel like I grew too fast.
I wore them when they tightened around my waist and thighs.
I wore them when they squeezed my calves and ankles.
And I wore them because I was in denial that I needed new jeans.
Some people would consider it funny, how others hate getting new jeans.
It is not the fact that I spend money on denim, but the fact that I grew.
My waist got bigger, and my thighs probably did too.
Which means while I have been avoiding the scale, I have gained weight.
No, it is not the denim.
Or the squirmy feeling in my stomach when I pluck size six jeans off the rack.
It is the feeling of the failure.
Like I have failed myself somehow.
All the days I only ate one meal or less.
All the days I tried.
All for nothing, because I grew out of my jeans today.
And I cried when I folded them away.
I know my little sister might never wear them because her thighs don’t touch.
And she doesn’t hate the scale.
So I will fold away my jeans that I grew out of today and perhaps never see them again.
Goodwill might have them in a few years, or make I will make so new DIY craft out of them.
But the fact is: I grew out of my jeans today. And I cried because that means I have somehow failed.
I don’t know why or how, but I do know that I feel like two years is not long enough for a pair of jeans.