27

This was the waist size of the jeans I wore in high school.

You’d think I’d be happy, at almost 40, to still be wearing the same size pants that I did when I was 15.

Except to me, it feels like a massive failure.

A time warp back to being invisible.

Because I’ve also worn a 26. And a 25.

And with each notch down, I’ve felt more worthy.

More beautiful.

More like me. Because others liked me.

I haven’t actually purchased a 27 yet, but my tight 26s are telling me it’s time.

I try to wear leggings when I can, instead, to prolong the inevitable.

It doesn’t help that I have no ass (got that from my dad’s side).

Each notch up in my waist accentuates what’s missing in the back.

It’s funny how pants can both sag and squeeze you at the same time.

I don’t know how to dress for this new, squishier body.

When I was in high school, I wore baggy JNCOs, Vans, and baby-doll tees.

That doesn’t work for me now, though.

Everything I put on feels wrong lately.

I don’t like being so uncomfortable in my skin.

Or my pants.

But I’m not sure how to accept them changing, either.