Perfectly Imperfect Me

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.