A Story of Recovery:

Fitting Right In

“What?” I screeched (on the inside). My sponsor had just suggested that I withdraw a large sum of money from my savings account to visit Nordstrom to get fitted for a good bra. This suggestion came on the heels of my admission that I did not want to purchase my clothing from second-hand stores or thrift shops anymore. When I came to FA, not only were my clothes worn out, faded, and ill-fitting, but they were also stained, not washed very often or well, and certainly were not ironed.

A while ago, I had planned to go shopping for new clothes one Sunday morning after my committed meeting. I called my sponsor in a panic because I was not sure I could shop and get home in time for lunch. She agreed that I should go home and have lunch. She said that she had so much fun shopping, that she would not want to short-change herself with a time constraint either.

Fun? Did she say fun? Shopping in the past had been nothing short of an embarrassing chore. Either the elastic waist was no longer elastic, or the inner thighs had finally totally fallen apart. I never knew what size I wore. I definitely did not feel comfortable asking a salesperson for help; she was obviously too busy to help me and I, of course, did not deserve help, fat slob that I was. Thus I would find myself pushing through hanger after hanger in used clothing stores to find something, anything that would fit.

Schlepping along as though I didn’t exist was the story of my life. In the supermarket, I would stand up inside the freezer looking for my favorite frozen item (it just had to be there somewhere), and get plastic bags from the produce section (since the paper bags in the bakery section ripped and definitely were not big enough) to haul out my booty to the car. Every once in a while, the junk food would make it home intact; oftentimes the desperation took over. Long gone were the days of Weight Watchers, when we were told to put our groceries in the trunk of the car. For me, it was full-fledged tearing open, gobbling, and spilling.

I’d gotten into a necessary groove of wearing pajamas for the ease and comfort not only at home, but even when I went to the supermarket. At work I had to wear my pants unzipped with a windbreaker zipped closed to hold me all together. Talk about a stuffed sausage.

After I lost weight in FA, after many shopping trips, I did find clothes that were my size, or what I thought were my size. It has taken a long time, through the help of my sponsor and my fellows, and with the experience of many returned items, to figure out that when clothes fit, they are not too tight. Clothing looks like that when worn correctly. I was so used to billowing around in the tent of my own clothing, hiding, and dodging human contact, that I really had to rely on the eyes of others.

So, I was as scared to take my sponsor’s suggestion and withdraw money to spend on myself as I was to step foot inside Nordstrom. In my mind, Nordstrom was for well-dressed and snooty rich women, who would look away disgustedly from the white trash I felt myself to be.

I talked myself in and out of my fears. I felt up against my usual resistance. I was experiencing, what the AA Big Book refers to as “contempt prior to investigation.” I was 58 years old, for God’s sake. I worked full-time for 20 years at the same job, and I had certainly spent money on as many flour and sugar products as I dared purchase at supermarkets, corner stores, and cafeterias.

Frightened but stoic to do what my sponsor suggested, I withdrew the money. I was fitted in a lovely fitting room with a three-way mirror. These new bras felt like clouds with straps.

I was amazed. I gushed with awe and happiness, but told my sponsor I could not possibly even consider wearing my new bras to work (as a gardener with the National Park Service) because I would not want to sweat on them.

She paused, and asked in her quiet, ever-wondering voice, “Can you really afford to wait?”

She was right. Again. Could I afford to miss the comfort of well-fitting clothes? No. Could I afford to pull a sports bra over my head and feel my breasts flattened against my chest again? No. Could I afford not to stand up straight in my own life and my own body? No. Could I afford not to matter? No.

I could not afford to wait any longer to live a better life.