Compost Clothes

My sister, Noel, sent me a wonderful gift in the mail: a huge box of maternity clothes that she and a friend wanted to donate to my cause. There must have been 20 shirts and 20 shorts in the box. She's so generous.

She sent the box a week or so ago. You'd think that a grateful person would open the box furiously and hurriedly try everyone on to see how it fit.

I don't know what my problem is. I opened the box but I froze after taking out the clothes. I'm getting too large for my normal clothes, but I couldn't bring myself to don the maternal garb.

Today I managed to go through the pile and sort out what I could wear. Then I took out all my "normal" clothes from my drawers and replaced them with the, er, tent clothes.

I went to my closet to get my Rubberma*id storage bin of shame. Do you have one of those? It's the I-can't-wear-these-jeans-anymore-but-by-golly-I-will-one-day box. Essentially it's the plastic bin of lies I keep in my closet. And for ten bucks, it can hold a lotta vanity. At least I can put a lid on it and generally not think about it.

I opened the box to find the bikini I wore on my honeymoon at the very bottom. Bikini. Ha. Haven't worn one of those since the whole "I do" session. It looked smaller than I remembered it... I think I might be able to wear it as an eye-patch if I'm ever in a pinch.

Then I found the Eddie Bauer skinny jeans I was able to wear pre-Morgan. But never post-Morgan. They leared at me.

I gingerly lay my winter clothes on top (no guilt there, turtlenecks!), but the summer garb did balk a bit as I closed the lid. Sorry, capris... I gots no more room in my drawers-- a statement that works both literally and figuratively.

After I cinched the lid on tightly, I stood back and laughed at my virtual compost-pile of clothes... the older stuff on the bottom, which-- I'll be honest-- will probably rot before real compost because there's no way in this decade I'll be able to fit in those sexy jeans again. And then the mounds of other clothes on top. I hope the clothes on top don't start asking the bikini how long she was there because they might rise up and revolt... let the occasional moth take a bite or let their colors fade. I don't know.

The point, however, is that I did it. I accepted my new body-- this funny, lumpy, wonderful baby-growing machine. I bit the bullet and donned a new shirt today and you know what? I'm pretty cute. I'll grow into this new role eventually.

Meanwhile, don't tell my compost bin about my new 'drobe. I'm coming back. Eventually.

________________________________

Post Script: To my well-meaning friends who might say some dribble about "you're not fat" or "it's for a good cause", please refrain. At heart I'm a cynic and I love to say things which give the reader a smirk or two.

If, however, you'd like to share your bin o' shame or the "how I grew to love my big, fat, pregnant body" stories, I'm game. I'm game.