Dear Lionheart,
You don’t know me, the poltergeist of the new pair of jeans that lay before you. Yes, they have a tiny hole the size of my unnaturally small pinky in the seam of the right knee. To you, they’re the perfect, soft material, more than ready to be distressed so you can feel like a badass when you wear them with whichever pair of shoes make you feel powerful. My personal shoe of choice would be black combat boots, but a little heel or a sneaker would do just as well.
You’re probably planning a whole outfit in your head, already texting your friend about how you’re going to wear them to that concert you’re finally going to with her. She always knows what’s in style, so you can count on her to make sure you two look amazing on your night out. Insta-ready? Yes, please.
Before they make their big debut, there are a few things I want you to know about them. They’re a bit shy about going out and need some party music to get them in the mood because they used to go by another name: “the fat jeans.” I can already hear you saying “psh, no,” as you double-check the label again: 0s. But they were, though not at first.
At first, they were my skinny jeans that made my ass look great and were my go-to jeans for when I went out with my friends in high-school. Sixteen-year-old me conquered all in them, feeling a little bit sexy and a little bit mature the first time I wore them with black, wedged, knee-high boots. I still have the photo from the first time I wore them; I was smiling so hard you would’ve thought the camera lens would’ve cracked, beside my best friend, in my parents’ room. My dog, Andy, was the definition of photogenic; black nose sticking out from between both our arms, which made the photo that much better. We call that our first “official” high school picture. This was before we learned how to “selfie” properly so until we did, all of our Facebook-worthy pictures were taken by our parents. How’s that for old?
Now, the jeans themselves were never “fat” by the fashion industry’s standards. The person who took refuge in them wasn’t either but felt, and sometimes still feels, that way. As I got older and the puppet master in my head told me that I was the problem, not the jeans crafted with tricks, they slowly made their way to the back of my drawer, too scared to come out in fear of being stared at for too long. The only time they made an appearance was when I was bloated from my period or felt so insecure about myself that I begged they’d render me invisible when I went to the grocery store to get a container of milk. They became the literal “butt of the joke” in my Instagram posts, the year I was so sick I gloated about it every chance I got, glorified “fat jeans” on display for the world to see that I had, finally, conquered every woman’s fashion demon. I still remember the caption, “when the fat jeans are too big,” with the toothy-smile emoji. It was not “too woman” but just “woman enough,” so the world could conveniently forget the abundance of un-slightly periods that came before.
Even though I stopped spinning on the hamster wheel of negative thoughts and behaviors about my body and what I should look like, I never christened “the fat jeans” a new name. They were never part of my recovery, only a backward time capsule to when I was fighting against the girl in the mirror, not for her. So, I would like you to give them a new name, for both of us. Treat them like how you would treat yourself after a long day of work or a stressful day at school. Tell them you love them, even on the days when they try to build a new cocoon.
Here’s how to start: Remember that they include you.