Jeans. ugh.

Ready for a Rant?


We are going to real talk for a minute. I will be talking about my weight, my size, and lots of unflattering things about myself.
No bashing. Only love here please.

I hit my prime probably the year after I graduated Indian Creek High. I was 5' 5", 115 lbs, tan, long dark hair. A total babe. I moved to Utah and stayed pretty much the same for maybe two years. Within that time, I met my hubs. I continued to eat like a 15 year old boy but it didn't matter. I was still skinny! My husband and I dated for two years and when we got married I realized I put on, maybe 5-10lbs, no biggie. Now with three years of marriage under our belt, (along with too many cheeseburgers) I am now at approximately 140lbs. Let that sink in. I am TEN pounds shy of my buff, 5"11 husband.

Okay so here is my rant. I used to work for American Eagle Outfitters. I have this weird quality where if I work for a company, I become oddly defensive and proud of that company. It's like my soul responsibility to defend the honor of the store.
So I only buy my jeans from AEO and I always refer people strictly for their jeans. While I worked there I could fit into a zero. It was super snug at first but they stretch a little once worn in. I moved to a size two and have been the same up until recently. (I know I will continue to eat healthier and work out more but I have just been so sick of only having one pair of jeans that fit, that I went to buy a larger size.) I was braced emotionally for going up a size.

So I go in to my beloved American Eagle, grab my favorite jeans in a size up and go try them on...
I couldn't even get it past my knees. There had to be something wrong. I walked into the store wearing my size TWO jeans. They were just a bit snug so I knew the fours would fit. But they didn't?

So I go back to the jean wall and grab a six. Confused and sweating a bit from trying to yank the fours on to my once petite frame, I returned to my fitting room with the six. Still snug. These were a bit smaller than the twos I had on upon entering the store. I told myself, they'll stretch, it will be fine.

The store had a buy one get one half off sale so of course I had to grab another pair. So I grabbed a skinny jean in a different wash (in a 6) and headed back to my fitting room just to double check.
Heck to the no! No way did this pair even resemble something that could fit me! At this point, I broke down. I sat on the floor of this dirty dressing room, with these stupid six's not even to my knees and cried. How could my athletic handsome husband even find me remotely beautiful? I feel like a piece of lard trying to fit into a hot dog casing. (the jumping around to get the pants on had added "sweaty" to that happy list of adjectives.)

I grabbed the eight squeezed into it and decided that was good enough. No way in this world was I going to buy a size ten.

I  went into the store to buy a pair of pants that actually fit me. I ended up spending almost $80 on two pairs of pants that hardly fit. And then cried all the way home.

You know what shouldn't matter? The size of my jeans. You know why? No one else knows what size my pants are. All people see is if they fit or not. Ya know what else? Sizes are stupid.

My two's that I wore today are the largest size on the bottom of the pile. The six's are in the middle and the eight's are the lightest pair on the top. Seriously American Eagle? This is dumb. I got so worked up today and felt awful because of the size I could hardly fit into. I will be marching right back to that store, getting the size that fits me, no matter the number on the tag.

I mentioned in my first blog post that this is really more of a journal for me. I don't make these for anyone else but myself. However, if you relate, wanna know a little more about me, or just want to read about someone else's life, you are welcome to read my ramblings. I began this as a feel bad for me, mean old jeans, pitty party. I ended it realizing that I can't change the way a company chooses to size their clothing. but I can choose how to let it effect me.

I am going to choose clothes that fit me. And I'm going to look dang good in those ten's.

Until next time...
-R

one in the morning rant.

I think that I write when I am upset.
I write, or get inspired to write well after midnight.


Being a girl is hard. Being a somewhat.. not ugly girl is hard.

I had a conversation with someone where we were talking about things that are important to us. He said "I'm sure yours is clothes, or makeup, or something like that right?" Right, because the only thing that matters to a pretty girl is clothes and makeup. Just because I decide to care about what I look like, or enjoy looking nice, does not mean that I am a shallow, stupid, bimbo. But so many times, that is what people assume.

For 24 years I have been treated like a ditz. Having emotions is wrong. Having an opinion is wrong. Being more than a pretty face is wrong.

While I was in high school, I liked this guy, he of course didn't know I existed. After we graduated he messaged me on Facebook.

Guy: Hey :)
Me: Hello
Guy: Wow, you grew up ;)
Me: Yeah, that tends to happen over time... =]
Guy: what...?

Then the conversation quickly dwindled away before it even began. He didn't want a sarcastic answer,
he wanted "thanx *wink face *flirty-flirty-lame-small-talk

In my small amount of life experience, I believe that women are treated like machines. There are set amount of appropriate conversation topics, responses, and opinions. If you do not meet the criteria, you are not good enough. If someone asks for your opinion, but you don't give the correct response, you are wrong. If you show too much emotion "you must be getting ready to start your period" If you don't flirt the way someone expects, you are required to change, or they will move on.

Why is it that I have a limit to the amount of emotions I am allowed to show before it annoys you. Why is it okay for a man to tell me to go back to the kitchen where I belong, be dead serious, and everyone laughs like its a joke. Then I'm just being hormonal, uptight when I bite back. Why is it okay for you to make me feel like less of a person because I am a woman?

I am so tired of this. I am so tired of girls being vicious towards girls and boys treating us like oblivious objects. I am hard on myself as is, I don't need anybody else's help to bring my self esteem down.

They say that girls are hard on themselves. Did you ever stop to think that maybe it's because its socially acceptable to treat girls like they are worthless.

This is totally a rant, and I probably won't post this on Facebook for everyone to see. But I do think that this is a real problem. And I am working on not caring about what others think of me, and caring more about what I think of me.

until next time...

Living with IBS

Alright ladies and gents, ready for a topic that is a little... well... real?

I.B.S or Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I have it.

Let's get one thing out there now. We are all adults, (or close enough) and this syndrome means I have poop issues. There. I said it. Poop. Have we all giggled now? Can we move on? Okay.

I remember being in kindergarten and having really bad stomach aches. I would be in a lot of pain. I thought I had to go to the bathroom, but nothing would happen. So my mom took me to the doctor. After quite a bit of time talking to the doc, and not understanding what a stool had to do with my stomach... I realized she was talking about my poop. Certain foods irritate my insides. which causes pain, difficulty going to the bathroom and when a bowel movement happens, it is a bad day. So bad in fact, that as a child, I'd be in so much pain trying to poop that I would just hold it in until the pain went away. This resulted in me being very constipated. Which also makes for a lot of bad days.

The foods that really irritate my stomach are greasy foods, and acidic foods. Their are different types of acid. For example, oranges have one type, and tomatoes have another. This means anything with tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato paste or tomato chunks... it's a no go. I can't have pizza, pasta with tomato stuff in it, anything deep fried, fried in general, or meats that are fatty.

Little tid-bit about me. I am an extremely picky eater. Like, its bad. I also have major texture issues. I won't eat foods with weird textures. I'll totally start gagging. All of this on top of a restricted IBS diet, I only eat like four things.

Let's fast forward to middle school. IBS never goes away. At least not for me. I tried the diet but I really only had a few meals I could eat. So I began eating pizza and pasta and burgers and all of the things I was told not to eat. (That was the greatest and most painful day of my life.) When you have poop issues, especially as bad as mine, it causes your breath to stink. I was made fun of for YEARS and called "dog breath."        (Calling you out middle school bullies!)

IBS is a sneaky little booger. Sometimes I can eat fried chicken, pizza and a burger, (unhealthy but whatevs) all in one day and nothing happens. Sometimes I eat spaghetti for dinner and twenty minutes later I am on the floor in the fetal position crying and trying to crawl up the stairs to the bathroom. 

The worst example of this:

My husband and I were in the first few months of dating and his VW Jetta needed repairs. We were able to drive it up to Salt Lake (about 50 mins away) to a shop that specialized in VWs. They told us the repairs would take a few days so we went to dinner with my husbands uncle and he let us drive his car back home. We ate at Chilie's and I had some sort of taco something-or-other. (first mistake) As we got on the highway, I felt the familiar rumbly in my tumbly. Sometimes, if I am lucky, I can just sweat it out. Literally. I sit in agonizing pain for about ten minutes, sweat like crazy, and it will pass. Nope. Not this time. I had to explain to my somewhat new boyfriend that we needed to stop. Now. "Hey um, do you think we could stop? I need to use the restroom." to which he replied, "We will be home in 30 minutes, do you think you can wait?"

ha. uh no. At this point I felt like I was going to blow a hole in the seat if we didn't stop in 30 seconds. Either try and keep my cool and possibly go in the car, or express the urgency and have to explain my poop issues way earlier than I planned. So after a lot of screaming, breathing like I was about to give birth, and crushing his right hand, I made it to a bathroom. This trip earned the code name Pompeii.

Life with IBS is tricky and quite embarrassing. I decided to write this blog early this morning between the hours of 2:30am and 5:30am while in the bathroom. I would go, then lay on the floor and sleep for 15 mins, get up and go again. For. Three. Hours. I was in so much pain that I remember thinking... giving birth to a human can't be much worse than this. 

This is, and will be the most real post I'll ever write. This is the least known fact about me. This is the most embarrassing fact about me. And this is what it is like living with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. 

Until next time...