Those Old Pair of Jeans

Most women will know where I'm coming from with this (maybe some men too?) - I have a skirt in my wardrobe I have never worn, because it is just that bit too small. I fit in it, but I don't feel comfortable in it.
My chunky thighs are pressed together in a way that is only desirable for ... Well, nothing, and no one.

WAIT! CORRECTION!
My chunky thighs are pressed together...

Because that's what these kinds I clothes make us do. They make us feel fat, simply because we don't quite fit in them. 

Like an old pair of jeans you might have in your cupboard that you used to fit into, and you will fit into once again, as long as you do that Zumba class/carb-free diet/miracle diet pill.

Being a bit of a stingy person, I hate the idea of having to buy new clothes when I change size, so the idea of staying the same size appeals to me for this reason. But lately, with my jeans slightly baggy and me hoisting them up by my thumb every time I walk, I want to get some new, better fitting jeans.  

But as I keep discovering, clothes retailers feel the same way about my body as I often do: love my waist, hate my thighs.  
I get their jeans up - just- over my thighs to find there's a massive gap at the small of my back which I HATE.
I am not skinny enough for really skinny jeans. I tried on a pair of "relaxed boyfriend" jeans. Size 8, space at waist, tight at thigh. Size 10, space everywhere, and falling down with every move.  

My gym-bunny colleague has interpreted this as more reason to continue my workouts. Perhaps.  

So what should I do? Wear more dresses? If only - dresses these days are either maxi dresses (where's Emma gone? Why is this dress walking towards me?!), shift dresses (my beautiful curves, where did they go?!) Or the kind that look like a blouse and a skirt sewed together (is this a tea dress?) which strain over my boobs, and sit tight above my waist in a manner that makes me feel as though I'm tied to a long line of slaves. 

If I knew anything about dress making, I'd make things myself, in my measurements, so that I feel comfortable.
But since I don't, I'm stuck with two options- buy ill-fitting clothes, or change my body.  

These clothes, these retailers, make me feel as though my body is wrong. This on top of tons of pictures of models and celebs whose body I will never be remotely similar to (because LEGS), and adverts for creams and lotions that will exfoliate, firm or just sit away my body worries (seriously, my “Sit Tight” Soap&Glory body firming cream says it works when I'm SITTING.) 

So I am convinced that I need to work harder, exercise more, eat less, pray longer, so I can get the thighs of my dreams and of a retailer standard size so I can finally buy some jeans that FIT.   
Of course, I could do all of that.
Or I could just buy a belt. 
But I hate belts. 

And also, exercising more and eating less will not change my feet, which refuse to be a size 4.5, 5 or 5.5 and therefore always fall out of shoes or are rubbed on the toe, heel or on the skin anywhere.
 (Saying this, I got two pairs of shoes today. But they're sandals! They don't count! I'm talking high heels for work or fun!)  





Christine: I mean, they kind of rub my ankles, but all shoes does that. I have low ankles. 
Richard: You think you deserve that pain, but you don't.  






So my feet, and my thighs, are wrong.
And I probably (definitely) don't care enough to change.

FML, right? 

Brief Encounter

I love my boyfriend. In fact, I love him so much I might just be with him forever and ever until I die. If he'll have me. But despite this, or maybe because of this, well actually more despite this, there is something thrilling in stolen glances from somebody you think is cute.  What I feel for my boyfriend goes beyond physical attraction. Yes, I love to look at him, I think he is hot and handsome and scrummy etc etc. But sometimes you can stare so long at the roses you miss the tulips or daisies that are dotted around nearby. I use this analogy because roses are supposedly the most superior flower, or they're always perceived and conveyed that way. Whereas tulips and daisies are not.  So today on the train home a young guy was sitting on a seat across the aisle. He was cute. He was a worker of some sort (i.e. he had paint streaked jogging bottoms). I looked at him when he sat down, and I thought I saw him look at me too. This is always dangerous, because then, even when you don't want to, you get caught up in the "can I catch them looking?" game.  Anyway, I did. A few times.  And then he got off a few stops before me. Not before I had moved to the seat directly opposite him, so that I had a bit more freedom than next to the larger guy who looked slightly like a hybrid of Wall Street and The Godfather. When the cute worker guy got up, he looked at me before he got up. I know this because I saw he was making motions to get up and so I looked at him. And he looked through the window at me when he walks along the platform. I know this also because I was looking out the window to see if he would look at me again. And that is the sum total of my life with cute worker guy. And that is nice. Because I know nothing, this will fade as a memory, and tomorrow when I see my boyfriend I will love him just as much, if not more, than I do today.
I have had soooo many of these brief encounters over the years, and I enjoy them. Looks can say what words can't. Looks can say what you don't dare verbalise. Looks can say things that you don't want to say because actually what would be the point in saying them? You're sat on a train, no one else is good looking, it was almost inevitable that the two of you exchange glances.   Such is life. C'est la vie. 
**

Today I wore grey jeans for the first time in weeks, months even.  Today I was also slightly more creative and on the ball and confident. Coincidence? I'm going to test this theory next week sometime.  Also today, I heard someone yawn really loudly on the train. It amused me.

**

This is the reason I don't write very regularly. I haven't got enough to say.