The thing in my family is we never tell the truth about anything. We smile... at trips to the hospital, to people's funerals, at awkward moments at the dinner table when certain members of the family are obviously having a nervous breakdown. Pass the cheesecake please!
But my sister and I have this New Pact to tell each other the truth. It started when my cousin died and then when my Mom had her, "bad time" as she likes to call it. (Um... my idea of having a "bad time" involves cramps from my period and not being rushed to an emergency room.) I will one day tell the story of how Me & E (my awesome, fastastically cool younger sister) came up with the idea of the New Pact. But I feel like I'm getting off the topic of MY SECRET FEAR OF FAT GIRL JEANS.
So, in honoring the New Pact where we tell the truth, one day I told E, "I'm depressed, I'm not myself, I'm in some kind of funk." E was quiet for a second, I knew she was coming up with a plan which I knew would be better than my plan of laying in bed WITH OLD "US" MAGAZINES I had stolen from my dentist ("Tori & Dean: Inn Love." Rivetting!) E said, "Here's what you need to do: YOU NEED TO JUMP OUT OF AN AIRPLANE." Now it was my time to be silent as a "You are a moron" bell went off in my head.) She must be talking methaphorically, I thought, that I need more adventure in my life, that I need to face my fears, that I need to do something wild and spontaneous and unpredictable. The airplane must symbolize all that stuff because she can't really be expecting me to jump out of a plane. On a Saturday. When I am laying in bed and have all this important "US" magaqzine reading to do.
"E," I said, "Do you mean... metaphorically jump out of a plane? E signed, clearly frustrated. "No, I meant REALLY JUMP OUT OF A PLANE."
See, this is where we differ, where we don't see eye to eye. I AM NOT JUMPING OUT OF A frickin' PLANE. That was months ago. Just to torture me, my sister sent me photos of her JUMPING OUT OF A PLANE, signed, "Wish you were here."
One day, I will jump out of a plane. It's on my life list. It's a goal. But here's the thing: I can't go from a place where it's too overwhelming for me to shampoo AND condition my hair to a place where I am jumping out of things and possibly PLUMMENTING TO MY DEATH. That is too scary to me. But I can do something else that scares me TODAY and I'm doing it. I'm naming my fear, I'm staring it down AND I'M WRITING IT HERE SO THAT I CAN'T GET OUT OF IT. It's SOMETHING THAT SCARES ME somewhere between the level of seeing an ex-boyfriend at a party with his new hot girlfriend and jumping out of an airplane.
Here it is: I am going shopping for fat girl jeans. That's it. The delusion is over. I'm chunky. You guys know I gave up sweat pants but the truth is, like any TRUE JUNKY, I've been using again. First, it was just cotton pants with a zipper, then it WAS THE HARD STUFF, straight up sweats. With holes... disguised with long t-shirts. I'm so ashamed.
So now, I face the truth. It's not going to be pretty there at the mall. In the big girl section. But I have to do it OR I'll never get truly clean. I'll let you know how it goes. Thank you for letting me share.
