Preconceived notions

This issue of preconceived notions - specifically, what I keep thinking my body will look like when this journey is over - comes to mind frequently.

It was particularly persistent on Friday night when I found myself in the position of needing new clothes for a wedding. I've bought clothing since beginning to lose weight, but this was the first time I went out to buy something fancy. Like, a dress.

I've always avoided dresses, for many reasons. I like wearing sensible shoes. I like cushy socks. I have a hard time finding a cut I like, because it needs to be form-fitting enough to show my figure, yet forgiving enough to allow the tummy-squish when I sit down. It needs to be longer than mid-calf, because I'm not fond of how my calves look like wee tree trunks under a skirt, but not so long that my 5'1" (and change) frame trips over it. It needs to have sleeves that don't restrict my ample upper arms, or if it's sleeveless, the arm holes need to be small enough that I'm not showing off all my armpit flab.

You see my problem. This is why I don't go nice places.

So Friday, I headed to the local mall. While previous trips have been full of trepidation, knowing I'd be heading for the "Women's Section" - an unlikely euphemism for "Clothes To Make You Look Dowdy And Old" - this time was different. This time, I thought, I might be able to wear something different.

Something, you know, normal.

I won't keep you in suspense: It failed. The dresses I liked didn't come in my size, and the ones that did were terribly unattractive to me. When I checked the "Women's Section" in each of these department stores, I found a single rack of awkward twin-sets in garish colors and made of jersey.

I have a hard time believing that women really want to wear this. We just don't know better. We're not allowed.

After an hour of hitting every department store in the mall and trying on absolutely nothing, I hit a dress store that I'd never been in before. I browsed and found tons of possibilities in my size, and I filled my arms with clothes. I found a short skirt that I loved, two blouses that looked great on the hanger, and one dress that was fun and springy and was exactly what skinny-me would wear.

This dress, I thought, was perfect. It would look perfect.

On the way to the dressing room, I grabbed one more option, a dress that was pretty but bland, something old-me would wear.

This story ends predictably, given the topic of this post. The short skirt was out, the blouses were awkwardly boxy on my figure. The beautiful dress just looked wrong on me. The wrong style, the wrong cut, something. I looked like an imposter.

I looked like someone who didn't understand her own body.

I was trying so hard to have the body I wanted that I was ignoring the body I had. It's changed, yes, in wonderful ways. But the foundation is still the same. The big arms, the short waist, the muscular calves, the wide hips. These things haven't changed. They won't change.

So I put on the pretty-but-bland dress and took a look in the mirror. And there I was.

The funny thing about the clothes that old-me wore is that I spent a lifetime figuring out what worked. Those clothes still work. Only now, they look better than I could have ever imagined.

It was a smaller size than I've worn in twelve years. The size still had a "W" behind it, but that's what happens when you have wide hips. It's best to just accept it.

I'll never be tall and willowy. I'll always be short and sturdy.

I looked awesome in that dress, a smaller version of old-me. And, all things considered, I think I like it that way.