Impossible is a typoRunning my pants off and loving myself along the way

Ah the Holidays. This season of love, joy, and giving is rife with hidden spots of stress, trauma, and depression. We stress ourselves out with plans and family get-togethers and parties. I won’t even go into the stress of holiday shopping. Oy, that’s another post. It’s no wonder most people gain like 10lbs during this season and there are a slew of triggers that get the Crazy Inner Fat Girl all riled up. But there’s one uber special holiday trauma that Fat Girl fears above all -

Christmas presents.

Now, you’d think that getting any present is special and delightful, and they are, but giving a Fat Girl the gift of clothing is a no win situation anyway you go about it.

The very first thing Fat Girl does on Christmas morning is to assess the risk level of potential IEEDs (Improvised Esteem-Explosive Devices). Like a covert operative, Fat Girl volunteers to hand out gifts so that she can have some cover to poke and prod suspicious packages. Is that shirt box, with its perfect edges, squishy enough to contain a sweater? Or is it a board game? Oh that lumpy one is either jammies (generally safe), possibly underwear, or a dangerous pair of pants? That one, right there, looks dangerous, it’s definitely a top of some sort. Damn.

Now what to do? Do you open the dangerous one first? Hoping that you can cause a diversion out of someone else’s more awesome holiday gift or do you open it last hoping that by the time you get to the offending package, everyone will be gifted out and not care anymore. You know that the offensive clothing gift giver will want you to try that sucker on RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT. And that is the biggest danger of all.

Once opened, Fat Girl employs well practiced techniques that mask her appreciation of the item with her true intent – Discovering the size of the garment.

Having other people buy clothing for you can confirm that yeah, you really are that fat and your family knows it. There’s nothing worse that opening a sweater and seeing a shocking HUGE size on the tag, and having it fit just perfectly. The only thing worse is seeing a shockingly huge size on the tag and NOT being able to squeeze into the item. The only thing worse than that is seeing a shockingly huge size on the tag  and being forced to try the item on in front of all your family and not being able to squeeze it over your cookie laden hips, which of course will send you straight to the pantry to polish off the tray of Christmas cookies in peace and quiet.

Christmas was a low key affair this year for a sack full of reasons. Christmas morning I ooo’ed and ahhh’ed over the small stack of gift, saving that dreaded shirt box till the end. My folks know better than to buy me clothes as gifts. I think I’ve traumatized them by spending far too many holidays crying in my room. That tightness in my tummy started as I ripped the paper back, Crazy Inner Fat Girl already getting wound up for a mental tantrum. The shiny paper revealed a lovely black cashmere sweater,( I could so rock in a naughty librarian look!). Then my eyes bulge and I feel like someone punched me in the gut when I spy the size tag and it says – brace yourself – “M”.

What the hell is my mother thinking?? I’m not a stinking “M”. I have never been an “M” and will never be an “M”. Just because her size 8s hang off her now doesn’t mean everybody is an M. Sheesh.

After distracting everyone with breakfast, I run upstairs and figure I better get it over with. I try that size “M” sweater on with my jammies.

Holy Holidays Batman. That sucker fit. OK, granted, I don’t think I can wear it with my new jeans that are a tad too muffin-top-inducing, but it does fit. When in the world did I become a size “M”. Standing at my mirror admiring the fit of a sweater for perhaps the first time in my life, even my Crazy Inner Fat Girl had to smile. I think that sweater beats the pink camo Hello Kitty slippers as my favorite Christmas gift this year.