I used to have a lot of resentment towards dirt, drinks, sauces, sticky children, curious animals, and anything that came near my clothes in general.
Sitting down anyplace in new pants nearly made me hyperventilate. Forget about wearing white in public – that was just an invitation for disaster (besides, wearing white used to make me look like a blob of marshmallow creme, and not in a tasty way). If I wore new clothes, I might have gone so far as to cover myself with a protective tarp… that is, only if it was new, out of the box, with a waterproof and had a 100% guarantee that the color wouldn’t leak onto my clothes. Maybe a HazMat suit would be better?
So, maybe the last one’s an exaggeration. But I definitely used to panic at the thought of staining my clothes before losing weight.
Now? Who cares! Spaghetti sauce on my purple silk pajama pants? They were precariously close to falling off my hips anyways. Pine sap on my favorite green hoodie sweatshirt? It was starting to resemble a canvas tent. Mud and a rip on the hems of my best jeans? Something to shrug off – I couldn’t keep them up, even with a belt.
Oddly, these days each piece of bedraggled clothing I toss in the garbage can gives me a strange sense of happiness. Bring on the spaghetti sauce, cooking oil, and puppies that have rolled in dirt. That shirt/dress/pair of pants/etc. didn’t fit me anyways.