I walk into my closet.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the size 6 side of my closet, where they patiently hang neatly, waiting for their day to arrive…again.
All those gorgeous little tank tops. And skirts.
But my hand slowly, wistfully reaches towards the size 12 side.
Where clothes that cover problem areas hang.
I sigh deeply. Still gazing at my pretties in 6.
Damn that I wasn’t born with willpower.
Damn that I’m too lazy to work out.
And DAMN that I ever started smoking…which led to quitting…which led to this whole problem…again.
I pick out a pair of cute black capris. And a loose fitting black t-shirt. And…a black cardigan.
But so un-sexy.
It’s not the clothes fault.
Clothes don’t define the sexy.
The sexy defines the clothes.
My sexy was tucked away in a drawer with cute little camis.
Waiting to be taken out from it’s neatly folded resting place.
As I’m getting dressed in front of the mirror…
I wonder to myself…Why.
Why can’t I feel good about myself at the weight that my body has reached.
I’m not fat.
I’m not skinny.
I still have the same face.
The same hair.
I’m in feeling sexy limbo.
I think about a friend of my family. A woman who is on the larger side.
But she owns her sexy and wears it with her expensive designer clothes.
She sprays it behind her ears and on her pulse points.
It emanates from her.
She illuminates it.
She epitomizes it.
I wish I could be like that.
I wish I could have just a little bit of that.
In ME. No matter what size I am…
And all the different shapes in-between.
I’ve never defined how I feel about myself on whether or not men liked me.
I always go by how I feel when I look in the mirror.
These days, I gaze at my sexy, trapped my reflection.
Pounding at the mirror.
Begging me to take control.
Then I go on a mission.
I go on a diet.
And another diet.
It’s a constant battle lately.
Weight Watchers, fail.
South Beach, fail.
Medical Weight Loss…a local diet place. FAIL.
The more I diet. The more I fail.
The more out of control I feel.
The more my sexy creeps into the far back of the drawer it’s hidden in.
The more my sexy pounds on the mirror, begging. Pleading to be released.
I keep telling it to have patience.
One day, we’ll be together again.
Me and my sexy.
How I miss it.
I wish I could feel comfortable enough to wear it again…along with my size twelves.
But for now, just like I never gave up on quitting smoking,
I won’t give up on trying to get my sexy back.