I had a whole two days off this week, together. It's been wonderful. Monday was spent mostly in my PJ's and catching up with sleep - lots of snoozing, napping and general doziness on that day. Then Tuesday I got down to business and gutted my room.
I have to do this every 6 months because I've become something of a hoarder. I pick up things from my travels - everyday travels, travel adventures, new places, regular places - and keep them. In short; I collect junk. It's a problem.
Anyway. So I cleared out under my bed, my cupboards, my desk and got rid of so much stuff that I just don't want/need. It was tough, I was tough, but it was necessary.
In my determination and while I was on a roll, I decided to face the wardrobe and chest of drawers that are rammed - and I mean rammed - with clothes and shoes. Really embarrassingly rammed, too. Even Rob doesn't get a look in there because it's mortifying how I've kept them for the past months.
I took this opportunity to have a good clear out. Good for the soul, or so I've heard. It was a fantastic time to play dress-up too ("I need to see if this party dress still fits..."; "I haven't worn these jeans in forever..."; "Now this is a combo I'd never thought of..." and so on. It was a long process).
During this time I learnt a lot about myself.
I had so many clothes that I'd purchased because I loved, but in the wrong size. It baffled me at first. I was like; 'what on EARTH possessed you to get it in a size 8?!'. But then I woke up and smelt the denial. I'd deliberately picked up clothes too small simply because I refused to buy or wear anything above an 8. RIDICULOUS. The only time I've been an 8 - in jeans! - was after a pretty horrific breakup and we all know that's never a good and healthy weight-loss. I had brought these things wishing, hoping and praying I'd wake up and be able to fit perfectly into these things. Denial. And what a waste of bloody money!
Don't get me wrong, a lot of these clothes were put-on-able (not a real word, I know), but it took a lot of tugging, yanking, breathing in, wiggling and discomfort to say the least.
I was stupid, and at the precise moment of being paralysed by the hem of a TopShop size 8 pencil dress from 2009 stuck around my size 10/12 backside, I felt embarrassed for myself.
I guess I'm blogging about this because Tuesday was a bit of an awakening which made me feel mature and just a tad grown up.
So I'm not a size 6-8. So I probably will always be an awkward shape for trendy Topshop (I'm an 8 on top, 12 on bottom, 10 in dresses and small in leggings/tights). SO WHAT? It's me.
I'm proud of my little revelation, even if it came later than expected at 23. Magazines and adverts and airbrushing can suck it. No more uncomfortable can't-breathe-but-look-skinny for me. The 'ouch it's pinching' look is SO last year.
Oh I sound like a feminist. Sort of.