For one, I got to come out to Horrorhound, a really big horror convention that's associated with the famous magazine by the same name. In Indianapolis, which I had never visited, I met my friend Shae, who I've known online for quite awhile. She also works the convention and we were assigned as celebrity handlers. She was seated with Jamie Kennedy, while I had the pleasure of working for Gerrit Graham (The Phantom of the Paradise, C.H.U.D. II, Terror Vision, Child's Play 2, Used Cars). I had a blast sitting and talking to Gerrit while he met with his fans; during the weekend we also met such horror royalty as Amy Steel, Steve Dash, Steve Miner, Mark Patton, Megan Ward, Robert Englund, and many more. The convention was also home to MaskFest, a special FX sub-convention where makeup artists brought masks, life-sized busts, prop replicas and more to display and sell. Needless to say, I found more than a few things that I desperately needed to own. I also did much better with this convention than I did at Texas Frightmare Weekend back in May as far as taking care of myself; I drank plenty of water to stay hydrated and ate sensibly since our hotel room had a fridge in it. All in all, when the con wrapped I managed to escape with nothing more serious than a sore throat. Impressive, considering how many people leaned over and breathed on me during the weekend and how much dirty money I handled, hands I shook, etc!
Now that I'm back home and to the grind, working on getting things finalized for the Sacrament wrap party on Sunday and a friend's birthday on Friday and reshoots for the movie on Saturday (whew!), I decided to treat myself to a little retail therapy. My scale is still hovering right around 220 (damn), but I know that the weight is shifting around because my sizes are drastically changing. I've gone from a size 22/24 in jeans and tops to a 16 in most brands of jeans (18 in some of the less-forgiving ones, 14 in one pair of incredibly-undersized ones) and a medium in t-shirts as of this weekend. I can't remember ever wearing a medium since at least middle school and it elated me to no end to be able to get a 'staff' shirt at the convention without having to first ask how big their sizes went.
Still, with smaller sizes comes the price of wanting to shop. Gone are the days when I would go to the local mall and have to browse for accessories while my friends ducked into cute stores and tried on anything they saw on the racks. Now I go to Forever 21 or Aeropostale or any other store and can find something that fits me almost every time.
Today, however, I ducked into Forever 21 and found a pair of luscious black heels. Now that I'm not carrying around as much weight, I've developed a huge affection for them. They still have to have elevated platforms and thick heels, I'm not rocking stilettos or anything drastic that you might see on a stage while someone tosses dollar bills at me, but I love not having the ankle and knee pain that comes with the weight I was hauling around.
I snagged the heels and a fabulous black leather jacket with studs on the shoulders. They had a similar jacket in their plus-sized section last year, but even the 3X was way too small for me and I couldn't have dreamt of buying it. This one is a 1X and I honestly could've maybe gone down a size but wanted it to be roomy enough when I have a shirt beneath it.
I was definitely channeling my inner Lady Gaga when I tried it on, though... wearing it over just a bra seemed pretty cool. Plus I was kind of ecstatic that it zipped.
But the best was yet to come.
As you can tell in the photo, the red bra isn't quite cutting it anymore. I was a 44D when I started my weight loss journey, and I had my bra hooked on the loosest clasps on the back for comfort. It wasn't that I had 'huge' boobs by any means, I've never been that busty, but lately I've noticed a lot of room in the cups and even the tightest setting on the band wasn't cutting it anymore. I went to Lane Bryant recently and snagged a 40C, which was better but still didn't quite feel right.
So on a whim, I walked into the one store... the dreaded store. The one I've never set foot in unless it's to check out the fragrances. The one that has a fashion show every year full of devastatingly beautiful, flawless models; the one that puts out a catalog that has a reputation for men stealing it from their wives' collections; the one that calls their models 'angels' because no one so beautiful could be from Earth.
I went into Victoria's Secret.
I was half-expecting someone to hurry over and redirect me to the makeup or perfume section; fat girls, as everyone knows, don't shop at VS. Their panties only go to a size large; their clothing is made for people who have never been called names like elephant or had someone yell where are your knees? when they wore shorts on the playground in elementary school.
I spotted a curvy black girl with perfect makeup and manicured nails arranging the bottles of body wash and sparkly perfume and approached her timidly. "Excuse me?" I asked, my voice low. I could feel myself blushing. I didn't belong here. She was going to give me That Look, the one I've gotten every time I have ever walked into Express or Gap or the True Religion store. We have nothing here for you was coming, or Do you want me to show you the purses?
Instead she smiled sweetly. "Can I help you?"
Quietly, still blushing, I explained that I'd had weight loss surgery and this was the first time I had ever been able to possibly fit into a bra that wasn't 'plus sized'. She nodded and smiled and then I got down to it.
"You guys have so many bras, and I really don't even know where to start," I said sheepishly. "I don't know anything about any of them... do you work in bras or just the cosmetic stuff?"
She said that she only worked in the cosmetic stuff, but she walked me over to a sales associate, a beautiful blonde who was folding panties into a display table. She introduced the two of us and left us to it.
The girl beamed and said, "What can I do for you?" so I explained again that I had been a 44D but now I had lost quite a bit of weight and wanted to find a better bra that would fit me appropriately. "I have a 40C at home," I said uncertainly, "so maybe that's the right size?"
Her face fell for just a second. "I'm sorry, honey, but we don't carry 40s in the store, only online," she said apologetically. I could feel my face start to turn pink. There it was--- you're still too big. You're not allowed here. I took a step backward, nodding, already coming up with my apology for wasting her time, and she eyed me for a second and then said, "Hang on just a minute" before scuttling off in her heels. She came back with a tape measure.
If you've ever been fitted for a bra, you know what happens next. But have you ever been fitted for a bra by a girl with a body like a model, while her cool manicured hands touch your flabby stomach and the batwing arms you're desperately trying to tighten with kettlebell swings? I hadn't; the girls at Lane Bryant who had fitted me years ago were big, fluffy girls with mountain ranges for breasts and soft hands. They were used to saying large numbers, letters further in the alphabet than most smaller-sized shops needed to carry. They were used to big girls.
She left the dressing room and I stared at myself in the mirror for several moments while I waited. There I was, in my size-16 jeans that were actually a little loose on my hips and the dreaded red bra that gapped on the sides and the straps that, no matter how much I tightened them, slipped down my shoulders. My confidence, which had been so prevalent in Forever 21 while strutting in that black leather jacket and heels, was shaky, seismic under my flip-flopped feet.
She returned with a black bra dangling from her fingers. "This," she said brightly, "is your size."
"You said you guys didn't carry 40s in the store," I reminded her, flushing as she stepped outside the door to wait for me to change.
"You're not a 40," she returned. "You're a 38B."
While I can't say that I am enjoying continually losing letters in my bra size, the measurement gave me pause. "Are you sure?" I asked as I slipped into the Body by Victoria lingerie. I couldn't believe how slinky it felt, the soft t-shirt-like material, the way I couldn't feel the underwire. I adjusted the straps and after a minor bend-and-wiggle (every girl knows what I mean), I straightened up and stared at myself.
And started crying.
"Are you okay?!" she asked, hearing me sniffling behind the door but not so presumptuous as to try and come in.
And, in a bra and a pair of jeans, I opened the door and hugged her. I didn't even say anything, I just hugged her.
I know it sounds stupid to people, but I haven't been able to fit into anything in that store since I grew boobs. All through my adolescence, my friends got breasts and we would go to the mall, and they would buy their push-up bras and sexy lacy things. When the coupons came in my mailbox for a free pair of panties, I would pass them dutifully off to slimmer friends; I bought my bras (granted, some of them were cute, but still) at Lane Bryant, huge things with padded straps to hold up the weight of your boobs and wide bands in the back to try and suppress the dreadful backfat, multiple industrial-strength hooks to clasp it shut, packages of extenders sold discreetly by the register Just in Case. And now I was allowed to come into this forbidden wonderland of bright Pink and feathered angel-winged mannequins and I was able to buy a bra and no one would look at me and say Did you want to pick up some body spray today? Maybe some lipgloss? because that was all that would appeal to someone like me in that girly, much-revered land of underthings.
I walked out with two fabulous push-up bras, a bounce in my step, and swung that little pink bag in one hand as I walked through the mall, knowing that for the first time in my life it wasn't a fragrance collection in that iconic little bag.
Now that is what I call a Non-Scale Victory.
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