I just now slipped on a shirt that I think I will keep for the rest of my life. It’s my bellwether shirt, and it, more than any other item of clothing I own, tells me where I am in terms of size. When I bought it, I could button it all the way down, just barely. I couldn’t sit down with it buttoned without that gapping–you know what I mean–happening, so I wore it loose, with a tank top underneath. At my heaviest, I’m not sure I could even button it all the way down. At my thinnest in recent years, it hung on me sort of sack-like, and when I did wear it, it was buttoned, and sack-like, and I liked it that way.
So I slipped it on a few minutes ago, and while it’s not exactly sack-like on me (yet), it’s loose. Looser than it was at the beginning of the year when I last tried it on. It was buttonable (not a word but it serves my purposes).
The clothes don’t lie. My mirror does (LIAR! my face is not that puffy!). The camera does (hoo boy, does it ever!). My insecurities and doubts and self-loathing lie, all the freaking time. But the clothes don’t.
That’s why I’ll hang onto that shirt of mine. It doesn’t lie to me, and though I have often not liked what it’s had to say to me, it’s at least truthful.