One great lesson I think we all need to realise is ‘this too shall pass’, and that is never truer than when talking about the contents of my pants drawer. I love pants. I take great pride in every item that adorns my derriere whether it be a sporty g-string or my ‘comfy days’ pants. I, therefore, make time in my frantic (ha!) schedule to clear my pants draw every so often ‘because (I sigh as I gaze at a knackerd pair of Jack Wills briefs) this elastic, this too shall pass.’
This time, however, I found something lurking. A pink and tutu style menace that has been skulking in the bottom corner of my drawer for years now. The story of these pants is very simple. When I was about thirteen I bought these pants, which at the time I thought were wonderful (the tutu were very in when I was thirteen) a good two sizes too small for me so that ‘when I am finally thin’ I could wear them and know what I had achieved.
Now I should take this time to say when I say this was an unrealistic goal I mean it simply will never happen. I have always had a large behind, and by that I don’t mean I am dancing in the club to Anaconda celebrating my bubble butt. My butt is too big to be a bubble. My ass has mass. It takes up space, width-wise people! Bubble-butt implies it has the will to hold itself up! Realistically speaking I could be as fit as Rhonda Rousey and still not fit. It’s not my body.
I know that and yet for eight years these pants survived every cull and for what? For eight years these pants have been there sitting in my drawer mocking me for not having a size 6 bottom.
Well NO MORE!
Ladies and gentlemen today I looked at those pants and said ‘not today Satan’ and threw them out!
I should have done it a long time ago. Not because it was an unachievable goal I was setting for myself but because I realised years ago that the shape of my ass really didn’t matter all that much to my happiness. Yes, we feel good when we look good but those pants never ever made me feel good. They were a constant reminder for what I wasn’t and what I still am not; a model.
Now those who think that this post is a resignation and that I intend to live the rest of my life eating only pizza and toblerone can think again (though wouldn’t that be marvellous?) In the years since I purchased those pants I discovered exercise/running/yoga/weightlifting/boxing/tough mudders/triathalons. I have gotten to know my body and have come to love what it can do and love moving it and taking care of it from a place of joy not self-loathing.
Because people self loathing is what those pants were. They were a little piece of self-loathing that I’ve been holding onto for many years and now they are gone! Of course everyone has off days when they only look at the fitness models on instagram and wonder how many squats they need to do before they will look like them, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t be inspired and try to be better. What I am saying is that we need to do that from a place of self awareness and acceptance, not guilt and shame. There are good and healthy goals but I don’t think holding onto those pants was a good goal. It was one that was set out to prove to myself I am not good enough.
We need to be kind to ourselves. Treat yourself like you would your best friend. See what is good about your body, and yourself for that matter, before you see the bad. Everyone deserves to believe that they are beautiful. However, looking at those pink monsters, I realised that you will never feel that way if you’re fixed on an outward ideal. It should be something you realise without change, because you don’t need to be perfect to be perfect.
I don’t fit those pants. That’s okay. No object or number on a scale should define anyones place in this world. I thought it was worth saying because if thirteen year old me was out there still I would want her to read this. So I hope it will find you instead and some of the significance of letting go of these pants can resonate with us both.