In January, I was asked to join a couple and a girl I happened to like for dinner. I had been doing some less than glamorous IT work that day, so I wanted to wear something besides the dirty sweatshirt that I had on.
Buying a shirt right before I go out had been a typical thing for me. In years' past I often would drive to the rooftop parking lot near Macy's (at Lloyd Center in Portland) where there was always a place close to the door to park. That particular entrance led right to the mens' department where I would quickly pick among the Brandini (later Alfani) shirts on display. These shirts fit me perfectly so I knew I could grab one (XL), pay for it, and put it on in the parking lot, then drive straight to wherever I needed to go.
So before I went to join my three friends, I wanted to grab a shirt prior to dinner. I went to a nearby Fred Meyer store (not my first choice for clothing, but works in a pinch) and grabbed a decent looking long sleeved brown button up shirt with white stripes for $20. Sweet. Paid. Leave.
I get to the car and whip off the sweatshirt, quickly pulling the button up's sleeves over my arms and pulling the buttons to their respective button holes. I was afraid the shirt might not fit. My fears were confirmed.
Oh, the buttons fastened. The buttons and yes, their respective button holes, looked as if they were screaming in protest - straining against my girth. I thought that maybe I'd buttoned wrong or that a small child had somehow slipped between the shirt and my body. Standing there in the parking lot, looking like an overly packed sausage with a soon to burst casing, I had to accept the fact that I'd lost the ability to go into a store and purchase a size XL shirt off of the rack.
Two months later, I'd caught pneumonia. Pneumonia doesn't, by nature, cause weight loss. I was so sick, however, that I'd lost the ability to get out of bed and therefore get anything to eat or drink. By the time I was done with the whole ordeal, I'd lost 10 pounds and felt sort of good. For the first time in a while I weighed closer to 200 than 300 pounds.
Once I got well, I started watching what I ate and rejoined the gym. I lost another 10 pounds after a short period of time, which encouraged me to keep up the regimen of eating healthy and exercising regularly.
During this process, there had been a bit of incentive staring at me every morning, including
this morning. A decent looking long sleeved brown shirt with white stripes purchased four months earlier at a Fred Meyer store. I had, since that fateful evening, tried on the shirt with little success. The last time I'd tried had been a while ago and since I was feeling a little lucky this morning, I thought I'd give it a shot.
Not only did the shirt fit properly, but there was room to spare. I'd felt a tangible representation of my success was hanging on my body. I ceremoniously buttoned the shirt and saw the buttons, with their respective button holes giving me a look of approval - no strain this time. I threw on some jeans and tucked everything in, buckled my belt and stood in front of the mirror one last time before I headed out the door and off to work.
I hated the shirt. There wasn't anything particularly wrong with it, but I was finding that the color of brown was somehow a shade that went with
nothing. How does that happen? I mean, it's
brown. I was happy that it fit, but in the end I would not wear that shirt. I unceremoniously took it off and unceremoniously threw on another before leaving for work.
Even semi victories are better than none at all. I'm keeping the shirt anyways.
goochout.
