The Tell-Tale Sequined Mini Dress
I never used to buy clothes in my own size.
I always bought them in the size I wanted to be, was going to be, was only *insert arbitrary number here* pounds away from being. Everything I bought was a reward for what I was going to accomplish soon, eventually, someday.
I started building my dream wardrobe. The perfect white cotton halter dress with giant pink flowers along the hem. A vintage harlequin print sequin mini dress in jewel tones. All of these amazing pieces found, curated, worshipped, and too goddamn fucking small.
Usually this is supposed to be motivation, right? You want those cookies or that extra slice of pizza, then you think of that skirt in your closet and put it down. Motivation!
But instead, it was like the Tell-Tale heart. The soft pleats and hemmed curves silently screamed at me from behind the closet doors: “You’re too fat.” “You aren’t good enough to wear us.” “You’ll never be pretty and wearing us, so stick to your ugly fat girl clothes.”
Life happened. Weight was gained. Clothes got packed into boxes and bags with the tags still on and the extra buttons still dangling.
In three years, I kept them all.
When I started figuring out all my figurative baggage, it was time to deal with my literal baggage. It took me multiple attempts. I would open the drawers or boxes or bags, and that first fondle of chiffon would make me dream and wish for the life that existed there. I would cry, begin hyperventilating, and gently place the item back into its safe space.
Then I realized that was fucking ridiculous.
I could sit here and dream of wearing these outfits, OR I could just wear dramatic dresses and stunning skirts now, at the size I am. So I packed up twelve bags of clothing to donate, and the empty space was ready to be filled with literally anything else my heart desired.
So naturally, I bought myself more clothes in my size.
Don’t get me wrong, it was excruciating. I should probably be embarrassed by the tears shed and the fabric cuddled for a few seconds (minutes) too long. It was like mourning. I was saying goodbye to more than just cute clothes; I was saying goodbye to the me that existed in that terrible place for many years.
But getting rid of the clothes was more than just freeing up drawers. I was freeing myself from the mental baggage I was trying to squish myself into.
When you surround yourself with all the things you think you need to be, you lose sight of who you actually are. I wasn’t enjoying anything in the moment but focusing on everything else. Getting rid of all those clothes was throwing away those doubts in myself. I was looking that doubt in the face and telling it NOPE.
This baggage removal is something I need to apply to the rest of my life. There’s no use keeping the things around that don’t fit anymore- the fuckboys, the self doubts, the shitty people, the useless stuff. I need to enjoy the things that do fit and enjoy life right now instead of waiting to be happy eventually.
So here’s the saying goodbye to the life choices I’ve outgrown and filling my closet and life with things that fit. There’s always more sequined clothing to be bought in my size.