Consequently, I was ALL kinds of excited this weekend to find that I fit into several pairs of my pre-pregnancy jeans. After His Highness was born I tried on my biggest pair of jeans weekly; I stopped doing that after about 3 weeks. So 9 months later, I was going through my clothes, which I've been needing to do for a while. It was a very cleansing experience. I methodically tried on all my pants, dividing them up into piles named "keep," "pack away," "give away," and "throw away."
By and large I was able to choose easily which pairs went into which pile. Keeps I kept (duh). Pack aways were those that are now too big (yay!) and I'll use after the next kiddo (which is still quite hypothetical). Give aways were those pairs that still don't fit, and that I wouldn't be particularly excited about wearing, even if I did drop the last few pounds. The most traumatic thing, however, was letting go of my first-ever pair of bootcut jeans, purchased in 2002 from Old Navy, shortly after I started grad school and noticed just how much tapered legs did NOT flatter me. They've been on their last legs for a while now; I was just in denial of how nearly-dead they actually were. But as I inspected the holes and frayed edges I knew the time had come.
So then this morning I pulled on my Calvin bootcuts with glee. Didn't fit exactly the same as before, but not bad at all. I felt lean, mean, and not at all like a schoolmarm, to use one of the Cat Daddy's favorite loaded terms. Perfect for playing some kick-a$$ rock 'n roll for Jesus. Playing faster for the Master.
So I headed off to church. And in the middle of the music, while I was trying to hit a sweet fill, I felt my waistband loosen. The button had popped off. Not open, but off. Entirely. And all I could think was, "Of course it did."