I used to be really good at
knowing the things that would trigger my becoming of a total nutjob. There
were certain things that would immediately send me from a self-controlled Beyoncé
headspace to a complete Amanda Bynes in a matter of seconds, and I could smell
them from a mile away. I prided myself in this ability. I told myself that only
the most secure girls could sense their crazy and lasso it back into something
manageable. I think that actually might be the definition of mental stability.
Look it up. The problem is that, lately, I have completely lost this vital
ability to reverse-Hulk myself back into a person suitable for society. I’ve
been totally taken over by hormones.
This
became glaringly evident to me yesterday. I was trying on a pair of stylishly
flowing pants from Urban Outfitters that I had purchased late one night while
trolling the Internet for things I don’t need. The most rational part of me had
known as soon as I hit “add to cart” that the pants would never fit my child
bearing hips and protruding gut, but the idealistic part of me knew that the
simple act of typing in my credit card number would make me feel alive. It was
one of those devil and angel on your shoulder situations and I had given into
the promise of sartorial splendor over the bore of financial accountability. As
I stared in the mirror at my body shoved into the pants like a pregnant
chimichanga, I stared to cry. But, the thing was, my tears weren’t those of lament
for the complete Nichole Ritchie moment the pants would have provided, or tears
of sadness at the loss of my old body; these were tears of sheer rage at the
profiling, animal house that, obviously, was Urban Outfitters. Who did they
think they were, not catering to those with the bodies of chubby angel statues?
My mind drifted to thought of activism for fuller-framed individuals. Is this
the kind of garbage Gabourey Sidibe had to deal with? I wanted no part of that
kind of discrimination.
As I
threw the pants back into the box and grabbed my computer to order an XL t-shirt
that said something along the lines of “I MIGHT BE CHUNKY, BUT I STILL DESERVE
TO DRESS FUNKY,” Alex entered the room. Realizing the state I was in, he urged
me to go into the living room and fire up some Vanderpump Rules to clear my head. He was right, I needed to mellow
out and really explore what it was that was making me feel sad, angry, and
inspired all at once. Was this about pants or something much deeper?
As I
watched Stassi question Jax’s fidelity while simultaneously throwing a drink on
Katie, I let myself crawl into a trance of self-discovery. I thought back to
the roller coaster of feelings that I had been riding the last few months. There
was the time that I had caused the front desk girl at the doctor’s office to
cry when she had told me it would take 15 days to transfer my records to my new
doctor. She was just being dramatic, right? That couldn’t have been my fault. I
had simply questioned her commitment to her field. I mean, if it took her 15
days to send a fax, maybe she wasn’t cut out for clerical work. I also don’t
really think I took it too far when I requested that she let me come behind the
desk and send the fax myself while she took a second to reflect on what the
hell was wrong with her. There was also that other time when I started crying
so hard during One Direction’s song Story
of My Life that I had to pull over until I could get it together. What
about that other time when my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I
became so enraged that she didn’t already know that I told her I wanted nothing
at all and called three separate times that day to make sure she wasn’t getting
me a present because I DID NOT WANT ONE. She ended up getting me a gift, but I
wonder what would have happened to her if she hadn’t. It couldn’t have been
good. Could all these events be connected by one common denominator?
It
was at this moment that Alex came into the living room jokingly sporting the
pants that had ruined my life only a few hours before. He thought it would be a
funny, light-hearted way to cheer me up. As I looked up from my Bravo favorite
and saw him, I was overcome with a myriad of familiar emotion. The fabric was
loose yet flattering on his frame. The slightly transparent fabric revealed the
lining, which was cut into shorts, perfectly giving him the exact sexy,
bohemian edge I was trying to achieve. He was taking those pants from
sweatshop-made high school free dress day to Valentino Pre Spring 2014 so
effortlessly. I took a deep breath, quickly trying to process the cocktail of
irrational feelings that Satan himself had thrown in my face. Before I could wrangle
myself back to earth, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Listen, you’re
sleeping in the guest room tonight.” He replied, “Can I still wear the pants?”