I've mislaid some clothes. I wanted to wear a pink jacket the other day - I'd been to a funeral so wore a black jacket with my grey and white dress, and thought I'd brighten up a bit for the afternoon. It's a bright pink, unmissable ... only it isn't. I can't find it anywhere. This morning I was going to do some scything so I wanted to wear my old jeans. No idea where they are. Last I saw of them they were in the washing machine. That is, I haven't worn them since I washed them, but they aren't there now.
Anyway, while I was looking this morning I picked up a pair of jeans that I keep for old times' sake. Shall I tell you the story? Oh, okay - well, it dates back to when Al was in his early teens and I had recently lost weight. It was 23 years ago in fact, and I weighed under 8 1/2 stone when I stopped dieting, and I kept that weight or close to it for several years - my forties were difficult years and that was when I piled on too many pounds.
One day I went to the pile of clothes I'd brought in from the washing line the day before, took a pair of jeans and put them on, did them up and realised something was wrong. Hard to identify, they fitted but they didn't feel right. I looked in the mirror and they were narrower than I expected. I took them off - of course, they were Al's jeans. Marks and Spencer, age 13, height 63 inches, waist 27 inches. Al was a skinny lad (he still is, turn sideways and he almost vanishes, just a thin line) and I was quite gratified that I could zip up his jeans *just like that*.
Well, when he grew out of them I kept them and they're my yardstick. Of course in my fatter days I never tried to put them on at all, and a few months ago I could put them on and not do them up. The last time I tried, I could do up the waist button but not the zip.
You know what's coming, don't you? Yes, I drew in the vast tum, pulled on the zip and up it went. I examined myself critically. Still something to come off the thighs and if I didn't hold the flab in by sheer willpower it had a tendency to spill over a bit (not outrageously, mind you). But I bent over and could touch my toes in them and, more importantly, I couldn't do them up a few weeks ago.
Later, I measured my hips. 37 inches.
Anyway, while I was looking this morning I picked up a pair of jeans that I keep for old times' sake. Shall I tell you the story? Oh, okay - well, it dates back to when Al was in his early teens and I had recently lost weight. It was 23 years ago in fact, and I weighed under 8 1/2 stone when I stopped dieting, and I kept that weight or close to it for several years - my forties were difficult years and that was when I piled on too many pounds.
One day I went to the pile of clothes I'd brought in from the washing line the day before, took a pair of jeans and put them on, did them up and realised something was wrong. Hard to identify, they fitted but they didn't feel right. I looked in the mirror and they were narrower than I expected. I took them off - of course, they were Al's jeans. Marks and Spencer, age 13, height 63 inches, waist 27 inches. Al was a skinny lad (he still is, turn sideways and he almost vanishes, just a thin line) and I was quite gratified that I could zip up his jeans *just like that*.
Well, when he grew out of them I kept them and they're my yardstick. Of course in my fatter days I never tried to put them on at all, and a few months ago I could put them on and not do them up. The last time I tried, I could do up the waist button but not the zip.
You know what's coming, don't you? Yes, I drew in the vast tum, pulled on the zip and up it went. I examined myself critically. Still something to come off the thighs and if I didn't hold the flab in by sheer willpower it had a tendency to spill over a bit (not outrageously, mind you). But I bent over and could touch my toes in them and, more importantly, I couldn't do them up a few weeks ago.
Later, I measured my hips. 37 inches.
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