From Fat to Fab

I had a lot of clothes.

People who I would convince to help with my yearly move from the college dorms to wherever I'd stay next would always have something to say about it.

Boxes and boxes. Tubs and tubs.

I was emotionally connected to my clothes. I would remember who got me what, how much it cost, and I would wear them until they ripped. Then I would get sad, and I would keep them, promising myself that one day, I'd learn to sew.

That has yet to happen, and I'm 29.

But I would also hit up Target for more. You see, I have a shopping addiction. I go to malls for the ambiance, for that new-store smell, and the luxurious perfume that inevitably wafts out of Abercrombie and Fitch. I go there to achieve my 10,000 steps for the day, to see what's new, to eat at the food court. I go there because it makes me happy.

But in reality, it's just a result of dopamine rushes.

I would eventually move to California where I'd pay my share of a $2.5k per month apartment. As one can imagine, shopping at Target became rather expensive.

I was always living paycheck-to-paycheck. I felt like I had to work in my free time to keep my head above water. And, of course, to fund my spending habit.

That's when I made the bold move back across the country to my hometown, where I could live comfortably... and afford anything I wanted.

The problem is that money will never buy everything that I think that I want.

So I had neon pink shorts in a size 6 that barely covered my ass, size 11 jeans with sparkles down the front. I had a size 12 dress and a size 8, just in case I'd be invited to any special occasion. I kept all these clothes for the ifs-ands-or-buts of life. I was always prepared to wear a different size in case my weight fluctuated.

And then my depression happened. I stopped working out. I had an ankle injury. I couldn't do much. I gave up.

And boy, did I gain weight.

I gained 100 lbs in 2 years.

Every time that I would keep clothes "just in case" I fluctuated on the scale, it would take me so long before I wore them that they'd go out of style. Gaucho pants? Who even wears those anymore?

It especially bothered me that I kept these clothes after I'd gained this exponential amount of weight. Getting dressed everyday, including when I went to scour my wardrobe for workout clothes, was a reminder of how long it would take before I could fit into my clothes again.

And everyday, it felt more impossible. The way my shirt crawled up my back and exposed my love handles, while my shorts rode up and gave me a wedgie was a constant reminder of the mistakes I had made. The inadequacy. The hard work it would take to get my shape back.

It became so bad that I would sleep in the same shirt that fit from the day before, and wear it the next day, and the next day. That's until I finally bit the bullet and took my poor ass to Walmart. Following my well-intending boyfriend's instructions of "Why don't you just get a pack of shirts like I do from the men's section?" I got by. I then had a Peter Griffin-style wardrobe of white shirts and black baggy sweatpants for the whole week.

At least they fit.

But if I couldn't shop anywhere but Walmart and wear anything but men's clothes, that wasn't going to help my self-esteem either. Especially with summer just around the corner, and every girl is in her cute summer sundress. Meanwhile, I'm looking like a dude.

No. Just no.

One day, I walked into my closet of cute cardigans, feminine tops, and skin-tight leggings.

And I said:

"I'm done keeping a museum of what I used to be."

I wanted clothes that did something for me. That helped me work out. That made me feel good about myself. That weren't five inches past my ankles or hiding my 5'3" figure.

I grabbed an apple-scented garbage bag, and I began piling each item into the bag. I remembered the horrible boyfriends I had dated and the terrible dates we had as I filled them. I realized that I wanted a lot of these clothes out of my life because of the memories associated with them—cheating, getting stood up, never feeling good enough, feeling fake.

And I also realized that I held on to them because I wanted to go back and make all of those situations right again. If I could do that, then maybe I wouldn't feel so hurt now. Maybe I wouldn't be fat now.

I knew that was illogical. So, I continued to stuff my belongings into bags. And seven bags later, I was off to Goodwill to grace the people of Oshkosh, WI with my California clothes.

I got a slip to write my donation down for tax purposes, and I got a 20% off any item coupon.

Before this, I wouldn't be caught dead in a Goodwill. I would never buy someone else's clothes that they've already paid for and worn. I was way above that.

That is, until I got fat. Not only were there slim pickings already in the world of style for plus sizes, but they were so expensive compared to standard sizes. Take a look at Torrid. The cheapest pair of leggings? $26. Target? $7. Yeah. That's a huge markup, and my poor, student-indebted ass was willing to take a quick peek at what Goodwill might have in the plus size. After all, most people in this area lived off a diet of cheese and beer, so there had to be some cute stuff I could get on the cheap.

That's the day my whole life changed. (And I forgot to use the coupon.)

I found shirts, long-sleeves, jerseys, hoodies, dresses, blazers, swim suits, jackets, earrings, and beanies for all under $8 a piece, with some as low as $0.99.

I found shirts that fit me that were patterned with hearts and cute cacti. I found neon pink and orange workout shirts. I found a slub-knit graphic tee that read "Fur Mama" (with some fur still attached, but it was $3). I found an Aaron Rodgers jersey in mint condition, and a Mark Chmura jersey for a dollar that I would end up selling on Mercari, the thrifting app.

I ended up spending $150 in clothes at Goodwill over the period of three visits, but if I'd bought all of it new, it would have probably been somewhere between $300 to $500. I was rocking the Columbia jacket logo for $8.99, while I was still reeling from that time I bought two for $120 five years ago.

I even started shopping at Goodwill for gifts. I found my teenage cousin a bloody "Zombie Task Force" shirt that he loved. I found my bougie cousin a $2 Juicy Couture beanie. And to think, we used to take trips to Chicago to visit their Fashion Outlet Mall just to get good deals on designer brands.

This was practically in my backyard!

The best part about Goodwill? They're everywhere.

My boyfriend and I went on a daycation to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and there was no better way to commemorate the trip than scouring through some Yooper's closets. It was the best way to get to know other people during a pandemic, where talking wasn't really happening much. It was interesting to see what they wore and wonder why they got rid of some of these items. Maybe they outgrew them, just like I did. There, I found a beautiful summer dress, an athletic-striped "Michigan" graphic tee, and plain shirts that were way better than wearing white tees from the men's section at Walmart.

I finally felt more like myself, and it wasn't just helping my self-esteem. Wearing these clothes and revamping my wardrobe was a small contribution toward helping the Earth become a little bit better.

I know that one day, I'll lose the weight. I could have kept my entire closet and waited for that day with open arms. But now, I'm empowered with clothes that do fit me. And I don't have to try to rush or feel bad about myself while I'm in this very delicate process of weight loss.

Getting rid of my clothes that didn't fit was the best decision I could have made. I get a fresh start, and someone else gets super cute clothes.

I can finally say that as of this moment in my life, I'm happy to be exactly the way that I am—even if that means that I'm plus sized.