Why I Don't Have Any Outfit Photos and Why I Hate These Pants

I recently decluttered some pants. Five pairs in total, now that I’ve released my grip on my last pair of skinny jeans. Three pairs were just too big. The skinny jeans were just too skinny. And the jeans— I just decided I hate.

I’d bought a pair of men’s black pants in my usual brand, GEORGE, from eBay, just a size down from the last pair— so a 36. I really liked my last black GEORGE pants, and was sad to see them go, so Matt tracked these down for me. The material wasn’t the same; it was thicker and more polyester feeling, and less drapey. But I liked the fit, and figured at least they’d be warm in winter.

Then COVID happened, and I never even got to wear them before deciding they were too big. I tried them on the other day, realized they were falling down, and figured I’d just wear a belt. I have a black leather belt from storage that finally fits, so I tried that. They looked ridiculous. There was just too much fabric gathered together in front, and no matter how I tried to redistribute it around my waist, I still hated them. See photo.

I put on my Men’s Levi’s 501s, and was happy to see that they finally sit down on my hips the way I intended them to. But looking in the mirror, I couldn’t help fixating on how they seemed to flare out on the legs and make me look like a cowboy, or someone’s dad. The back view was even worse, as by some miracle, they both gave me a wedgie and looked saggy. Despite the fact that they technically fit, I had to admit that I just hated them. See photos.

In order to illustrate these issues, I had Matt snap a few photos on my phone. Since my weight is lower than it has been in ten years, I figured I could handle seeing photos of myself. Oh, how wrong I was. Upon seeing them, I was horrified by how fat, short, and stumpy I looked. I cringed at the ones where my belly was visible through my shirt. I’d hesitated to even take the photos, but my concern was solely that I’d be showing off how thin I am, appearing vain and also opening myself up to commentary on my body. (I don’t enable comments on my blog, so don’t ask me how.)

Instead of seeing them as “thin photos,” I reacted by thinking I looked fat. I felt I’d been objectified, and that I’d exposed my most vulnerable body part— my squishy belly. I looked through the photos again today in preparation for writing this blog, and was surprised to find that I looked fine. The camera on my iPhone definitely distorts things a bit, and always seems to make me look even shorter than I am, but overall, the photos didn’t bother me. What was so different? Why did I have such a negative initial reaction?

At first glance, I thought I simply wasn’t thin enough to be putting pictures of myself on the internet. I’ve been wanting to post outfit photos to show more of how my wardrobe functions, but have always reacted this way to the photos. I thought that this time, I just had to be thin enough. I’m down to my college weight, for christ’s sake. But the last time I actually liked a photo of myself, I was even thinner. Will I like photos of myself if I lose ten to fifteen pounds? Or am I just so used to loathing my body that I keep on doing it, even when I’m thin?

It’s almost like I’ve experienced “fat trauma.” I often forget I’m no longer plus-sized when looking at clothes online. And the other day, Matt said something funny about picking me up, and I immediately reminded him that I was heavier than him. (I’m currently forty pounds lighter than him.) Why hasn’t my brain adjusted? Is it just a common case of body dysmorphia, where I think I’m much fatter than I am? After all, I’m fairly thin, and I still think I’m fat.

But the opposite is also true. When I’m fat, I’m always shocked when I look in the mirror, because I imagine I’m much thinner than I am. I’ve never even looked at our wedding photos, because I didn’t think I could handle seeing myself at almost two hundred pounds, regardless of how well-dressed I was, regardless of how special the event was. And when I tried filming some YouTube videos at 224 pounds, I cried every time I saw the playback.

I saw beautiful plus-sized people online, confident and stylish, posting pictures of themselves on Instagram. Why couldn’t that be me? I was no bigger than they were. Yet every time I saw a photo of myself, I simply didn’t recognize myself. I couldn’t accept my body as my own. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I still can’t. I still think my current weight would be fine for anyone else, but not for me.

I look back at those old “thin” photos of me on Facebook or on my phone— the ones where I was down to 125. The ones where I was too thin to get my period. The ones where I was thin specifically so that I could objectify myself for my career— where I could pass as thin at auditions, and be seen as a real person, and not the funny, fat friend. I think of those photos and say that that’s who I really am.

I feel like I’m a thin person trapped in a fat body. I imagine that people can see the difference between the “thin me” and my fat body, and I feel exposed. As if my pain and my mental illness are represented by those extra pounds, and it’s out there for the world to see. And my belly— that’s the worst of it. Soft and vulnerable, it’s the thing that makes people assume I’m pregnant, and ask me when I’m due. The thing that makes me feel deformed, somehow.

I saw the photos of those pants the other day, and all of this came flooding out. I talked it over with Matt, I made notes, I pondered.

But then I remembered how simple it really was. It was a fat thought. I analyzed my reaction, dissecting the language the way Carol Munter suggests in When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies. She contends that a fat thought is never about your body. It’s simply code for something else. The thought said I looked “fat.” That I looked “too big.” An old childhood taunt came to mind: “You think you’re so big”— that my brothers and I would throw around to insult each other. If this thought wasn’t about my body, what would it be saying? It would say that I was overconfident— that I was vain— displaying my body for everyone on the internet to see. It would say that I thought I looked so great—so clearly acceptable—that I was allowed to show myself to random people for judgement. It would say that I’d gotten “too big for my britches,” too full of myself. I’d showed off. And that made me feel ashamed.

I nixed the photos, and explained it away by saying I looked fat. A few days later, the pictures seemed fine. Was it safe to post them, or would it trigger another round of self-loathing? In the end, I decided to risk it. The photos are not about how thin or fat I am. This isn’t some weight loss before and after. They simply show you, Dear Reader, why I hate these pants.