Trying on clothes

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm getting kinda skinny. I'm a size 10 now; to put that in perspective,, even at my lowest weight (156--I'm an even 160 now! So close!) I was always a solid 12. Maybe it's a change in shape, or maybe a change of mind, but the experience of trying on clothes has changed drastically for me.

It used to be that I'd go into a store and search desperately through racks of clothes I could never wear looking for something that might look good on me and also came in the largest size available. I'd try on every viable option, and it wasn't uncommon for me to purchase an item just because it looked good on me, a practice born from fear that my difficulty in finding clothes that fit would leave me with nothing to wear for X, Y, or Z occasion.

Now, trying on clothes, I find things that are too loose, and tons of options available in my size. Sure, there are things that don't look great on my shape, but I can wear dresses I never could before, and my new shape is suitable for a wider variety of silhouettes and cuts. I no longer feel like I have to dress to slim my figure, I just have to dress pretty, or casual, or funky or whatever.

Instead of buying it all because it looked good on me I found myself swaying in the opposite direction; I became more selective. I only bought what I needed and was more discerning about details. I looked fantastic in a gorgeous and versatile black cocktail dress, but I put it back on the rack, knowing I had nowhere to wear it and, more importantly, that there will be other gorgeous and versatile dresses that fit me. And maybe I'll be even smaller, and maybe they'll hug my curves even better and maybe the straps won't do that thing where I have to lift them off my shoulders every fifteen minutes.

Regardless, my new shape is pretty pleasing to me, and apparently to the men of New York City too. I've definitely noticed that I'm treated differently when I'm almost 30 lbs. lighter. More smiles, more flirtatious banter, more catcalls... and even just flat out better service and treatment during business transactions.

Pigs.

Regardless, just like clothes, the new shape has me checking them out with a more selective eye, going only for the right attitude and style and for things I need, instead of just going with something because it's available and okay for now. I want something that's striking, something that really grabs my attention and fits me perfect in every noticable way. Something I can wear casually for a long time, and that will look better and better on me as time passes. And of it's not right, I won't be afraid to let it go, because there's always another dress. And maybe the next one will fit better and not do that thing where he's got no discernible interests outside his job, or can't put up with me having so little spare time, or doesn't take any initiative with me. So...yeah. Selective.

The analogy is kind of funny, but it really shows how much more comfortable I am in my own skin. I'm just generally happier to be me in a much different way than the manic freedom fighter of a year ago. I've replaced the battle cry of "I'm free!" with a pleasant comfort in having what I have, and confidence that I will get what I wish for, provided I continue my trend of working toward my goals and making myself happy.


kyle the girl
(on iPhone)

This is how George W. Bush supports Choice

I do not want children. Ever. And don't give me that "you'll change your mind someday" crap, because I'm absolutely serious. I do not want children. That said, I love kids! I do! I can't wait for Peanut to be born, and I'm totally excited to be Auntie Adventurous! I just don't want any children of my own...for a variety of reasons. Overpopulation factors in, as does the overwhelming disgust I feel at the idea of having another living thing inside of me (tapeworm! trichinella!). The biggest one? I know it sounds callous, but it's true. It's the same reason I don't want a dog; I value my freedom and I enjoy being selfish with my time.

The truth of the matter is (cover your eyes, Grand Life), although I don't want to have any babies at all, ever, I do want to have sex. Preferably lots and lots of sex. Responsible sex! I want to enjoy the sex. I want to enjoy it with freedom and abandon. And even if there is a tear in the condom, even if the condom slips off, yes, even then I want to be 99.9% sure (the highest amount of sure there is) that I am not with child at the end of the delicious, amazing, sexy sexy day. Or night. Or morning, in which case that would be the sexy sexy beginning of the day.

(Ever notice how saying sexy twice makes its direct object sound funny instead of sexy? Sexy sexy direct object.)

What you may not realize is that the accessibility of birth control to low-income women (like me) is under duress in this, the most "free" of nations. By lifting the cap on birth control cost, Congress essentially placed a $40+ monthly tax on women for having reproductive rights. That's for the pill, the patch, the Nuva Ring, and the like.

"No problem!" say some folks. "Their health insurance will take care of it! And if they don't have health insurance, they're probably on Medicaid!"

Guess what!? Me and about a kerjillion other women foil that particular system, and most of us aren't even crack addicts or whores (I, of course, am only a social crack user). We make way too much money to be on the gov'ment dole for health coverage, and we don't have jobs that provide us with health care. And, with my (astronomical, according to the government) salary, even if my job did provide health care I wouldn't be able to afford it. So when it comes time to address medical issues, I fork up the dough myself. Meanwhile, I pray every day: "If I have an accident or develop some horrible life-threatening illness, please, if there is anyone out there listening, please let it be someone else's fault. Actually, please let me get into a minor accident that is someone else's fault and also let me settle for a very very large sum. Then maybe I can afford health insurance!"

With the cost of my former prescription at about $50 (before tax), the cost of me being baby-free for the next five years using the pill, the patch, or the ring? Between $3,000 and $3,600, not including the cost of my annual exams or extras, or the cost of Plan B if some kind of freak accident happens...because although I am a very smart girl, I am not known for being the kind of person who remembers to do a thing at the same time every day. And as luck has had it once before, I've had to make that mad dash to Planned Parenthood.

So. Now you know the backstory, you know the legislation, and here's where that leaves us:

Like most of you probably did, I got a $600 check from the United States Treasury. I have decided to use it as an investment in my future. While researching for the Women's Health Nonprofit (remember when I worked for them?) I found a loophole in this expensive and hassle-filled mess of birth control availability. The IUD. The cost of my freedom using an IUD? $480. That's right; five blissful, 99.9% sure years for the bargain price of $480.

Yep, it's gonna be uncomfortable for a couple of days after it gets put in. Yep, I'll have a little string dangling out of my cervix. But nope, I won't ever have to worry about missing a day. And nope, I won't have "oh my god, I'm late" freak outs, which were a regular occurrence when I was foolishly trusted to remember taking tiny little pink and white pills every day.

Peace of mind? $480. Knowing that you used money given to you by G.W. Bush for nearly failsafe birth control? Priceless.

Out of curiosity, what are y'all doing with your checks?