Survival of the Fitting
2005

There’s a pair of uber-tight black silk Armani pants hanging in my closet. Size 4, I believe. Do they fit me, you might ask? Heck no. They’re hanging in what’s known as my “skinny section.” Many of you should be familiar with this notion. Most women I know have one. Some men, too. And I don’t know about your clothing from body-sizes past, but mine actually talk to me. Every time I peek inside my wardrobe closet, I’m bombarded with insults.

”Your butt used to be smaller, Jacuzzi”, the Armani pants say. “You used to weigh 105 pounds. Remember when you wore me to Girl Bar on your 21st birthday? You looked really hot that night. Sizzling hot. Uber hot. What the hell happened to you, renting movies on a Friday night and eating Phish Food ice cream in bed? You’re pathetic.”

I know I’m pathetic. I’ve been told I’m a total geek, in fact. But once upon a time, when those pants fit me, I wasn’t. My skinny clothes remind me of raucous times, those skinny-arsy times between the ages of 18 and 23. They were two hours of sleep, tall vodka-tonic-with-lime, cigarettes and jumbo coffees and whole life ahead of me times. Even with the lip they give me, I adore those pants; even when they whisper “Remember how much you PAID for me, Jacuzzi?”

“Don’t remind me”, I say. “And don’t ever tell anyone else.”

Chiming in from time to time is a haughty little bustier I bought on Melrose years ago. I always imagine it speaks with a French accent. “Why on earth must I hang the rest of my life in YOUR closet? You’ll never wear me again. Nobody over the age of 27 wears the likes of me and keeps their head up, right, Jacuzzi darling?”

“Is 29 over the hill?”, I bark back at her. “Believe me, if I wanted to wear you, I could. It’s just that I don’t want to walk around looking like a tramp anymore!”

“You, a tramp? Oh come on, don’t be silly”, the bustier says. “Not you with the paperback version of “Cien Anos de Soledad” sitting on your bedside table next to the Alka Seltzer wrappers. Ha! Don’t think I don’t know all your little secrets, Ms. Underwire. Go ahead, try me on. You’ll see I’m right, geek!”

So, every once in a while I try to show her up and put her on, along with the silk Armani pants. I put on a good show, acting as if I’m actually going to wear them out. Then I consider that the pants, which were tight to begin with, are now way beyond tight. The bustier, which laces up the front, reveals altogether too much seeing as now I’m not going to clubs anymore, but “functions.” Ewww, that grown-up word that means stuffy and boring and un-hip. The geek factor. In the end, the arrogant bustier always shows me up. After sucking myself in from every which direction and spinning in the mirror looking like a fashion model who just bit into a lemon, I peel myself out of the past, hang the clothes back up, and stick my tongue out at them right before I slam the closet door in their face. But I can always hear them giggling at me from inside. Sometimes I give them the finger, not that it does me any good.

Of course, next to these items are a whole host of other things that either don’t fit now or never really fit me to begin with. Either I went shopping when I was abnormally thin, like let’s say I had skipped both breakfast and lunch, and then bought a skirt only to find out that by bedtime the waistline was already obsolete. Or there are the items of clothing that I bought too small on purpose to give me incentive to lose weight. As if.

My ultimate fantasy is that I would never ever ever again have to buy a piece of clothing with a size tag in it. There would be a size called “Jacuzzi” and it would simply fit me, period. Or maybe they could be fashioned in the sizes of super-hot celebrities that anyone would be proud to be the same size as. The tiny skinny gals could wear size “Paris Hilton” while the curvaceous ones could wear size “Kate Winslet.” How empowering would that be? Wouldn’t any deliciously round woman feel proud to be a size “Margaret Cho” as opposed to being called “Plus-sized?” The numbers 4, 6, 8, 10, and 12 would hold no power over our lives. We could be Ram Daas profound, live in the present, heave out clothes that no longer fit and never look back. We would be snake-like, shedding the old skins, leaving them out in the elements for the vultures to eat, or give them to Goodwill perhaps. We wouldn’t hold onto former outfits as if they held mystical links to our youths.

I can say it. But can I do it? Can I throw out the black silk Armani pants? No way. Because, you know, one day I’m going to get back into them. And then, maybe, just maybe, there will be world peace.

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