Diva's Will be Done, & Slingshots Won, at Vickie's as in my Underwear Drawer....
Right. So, weight loss is good. No question. Extra-super-MEGA good, really. And so, by extension, having your once-tight clothes get loose on you is of the good too, even if it means you're dropping trou every time you're running to catch the bus or doing anything vigorous, say, for example, crossing the street or bending down to pick up a paperclip off the floor.
Go shopping, you say? Sometimes that's fun. Usually it's also expensive. Often it is simultaneously disappointing / frustrating / depressing. Moreover, just because I've done well so far doesn't mean I intend stopping here. Hitting the mark of 30 lbs. off is a SUPAR-NICE feeling, but I want that WW "75 lbs. Lost" magnet for my fridge SO BAD I can almost taste it (and it tastes good, like ice cream, french fries, corn dogs and such; not like magnet at all, surprisingly enough). That, and the accursed BMI chart are quite motivation enough for me to continue apace, thanks. So why would I keep wasting money on clothes that I'll wear for a few weeks, then no longer properly fit into them either?
Well, fortunately, there are other people. (This, a substantial revelation for a girl possessed of a decidedly dog-eared copy of "No Exit" on the night-table in my room.) But, yes, it's true. Other people can both have experienced things that I am currently going through, and share similar feelings / reactions to situational consequences, like the having of still-good clothes that no longer fit.
Ergo, this morning, in spite of the fact that I had slept in late, and was therefore running rather decidedly late for work this morning, I took a chunk of time to take stock of things, in this case, a whole drawer of things. And came to a realization. I have brassieres a'plenty. Lots of bras, a mass of massive sub-outfit garments, a tidy ton of underwear-based flying butresses. Some I've bought, but a whole bunch I've been given (by others in the same boat as me, or even those who've already arrived at the promised land of healthy-weighted cuteness), because they were expensive, pretty, and practically new, and I am truly appreciative of the generosity of such friends, profoundly so. Thank you muchly.
However. This also means that I have a grand total of 16 bras and 3 corsets. A not insignificant sum. And yet, the sizes are ALL OVER the place. I sorted and assessed them, in a pique. There were Cs, Ds, DDs, and even a few dreaded DDDs (the sight of which always brings to mind the owner of the lingerie shop on Main Street in Middletown, who would see me coming from down the street and frantically beckon me into her shop, insistently declaring in her strongly Asian-flavored accent that she had, "Great double-dee for you! Here, three-dee; you try!" over all my "look, lady," protests that I was a mere C-cup, thankyouverymuch).
Now, I understand that I bring simultaneous delight and despair to the sellers of such things 'round the globe. She couldn't help her joy at the thought of me and my bodacious ta-tas. I mean, seriously, she had to have been thinking about them on her own, when refilling her stock from the distribution center -- which should be wrong and dirty and scary, but she was a cute, little, chinese, shop-owner lady, and I doubt she had designs on my virtue. Just on the high honor and august accolades owing to the master capable of restraining at least 50% of my T&A.
Similarly, I understand that the manager-lady at Vickie's was in no way at fault for dropping her stoically helpful, retail-poker-face, when informing me, fullly dismayed in tone and manner, that she was, 'so very sorry, but [she] could not help [me].' She was so delighted to have been meeting me, at first; I think I'm her type of customer -- I walked in, made a beeline to smiling girl-with-measuring-tape, opened my coat, brandished my boobies and said, "What can you do with these?" [Actually, I imagine that's behavior a lot of folk in retail wouldn't shake a stick at.] But you weren't looking down at her face (nearly planted in the aforementioned part of my anatomy as she measured various areas and calculated ratios in reference to available stock) -- as it fell, in dismay (and not in the referenced bits, see above). I have the ribcage of an anime character, a Spanish-ghetto booty, and the jugs of a squaw with a whole tribe of spawn, and that's certainly not her fault either.
Nonetheless, none of this knowledge is much comfort when my best choices at 5-minutes-til-Oh-save-me-mighty-Diva-I'm-going-to-miss-the-bus o'clock, are the black lacey thing that makes creaky sounds when I move my arms from my sides, the uniboob-ifying sports bra, or the quadra-boobinizer that leads to POP-hello-Mister-President if I inhale too deeply in the middle of a meeting with the Operations committee. Not the sort of promotions I'm looking for at the workplace.
Thus, with a sigh, I resign myself to the needs of the people: I will buy new things. And I will send the old things to a parasailing school or a Princess Leia convention or something. Or have pockethedgehog sew a pug-hammock from them. Whatever their fate, it is no longer intertwined with mine. Diva wills it so.