The Loss of Weight Loss

I have no pants.

I’ve developed a new stride that Sparky calls the “Shuffle ‘n Pull”. The shuffle and pull is the only way I have of not exposing my ass as my pants fall down when I walk. Shuffle a little, pull a lot. Shuffle a little, pull a lot. I feel like a goddamned rap star. I have to choose my panties carefully in the morning as, inevitably, they will be on show at some point in the day.

Last winter I had no pants because nothing fit in the opposite direction and I froze in my summer weight cropped pants. Now? Well, I don’t want to buy anything until I go home at Christmas.

Skirts? Nope. It used to be that my hips kept everything up, but they’ve shrunk so everything falls down. The tights I have bag at my ankles and knees. Its really, really attractive.

I have no boobs. What was triple is now singular and not even of the same letter. The one area of my bod I was perfectly happy with has vanished into the night. Sadly, I now know why people use push-up bras. Scrunchy, the Hurray-for-Boobies-cat mourns the loss of his favorite pillow.

I can however, wear my knee boots. The boots I bought a year ago and couldn’t wear because my calves were too fat (“Bobbie Christina, You’re too Fat to wear that Hat!”). I’m not sure if boots and panties are really the look I’m going for, though, especially with the estrogen patch sticky stuff on my hip. (I have no hormones.)

A weird side effect is that people talk to me more now. People are friendlier, more open. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same agoraphobic misanthropist minus the T&A. And yet, people are more responsive. Even the occasional Deutscher will smile.

Maybe it’s the shuffle ‘n pull. It’s really attractive.


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Before you start hating me, this is not the ranting of an anorexic complaining that a size zero is just too big. I’m about 24 sizes away from that and I’ve already lost at least one Kylie. I get to bitch.