Why I don't "do" numbers

Because they stink?

I've never been good at math. Yet somehow I always found myself in advanced-math classes. If you want to be perfect you have to be the best of everything and that means being in the hardest classes ... duh.

I don't think you could pay me to get on a scale. Not even for a million dollars. Okay, maybe for a million dollars because that's a lot of new pairs of Lululemon pants, but please don't offer me a million dollars. I'd really rather not weigh myself.

And rightfully so! Right? Right. Why do I need to weigh myself ... why does ANYONE need to weigh themself? Actually, why were scales invented in the first place and WHO invented them. I will find you. I honestly just want to know what you were thinking.

Anyways, numbers really mess with my mind. When I first started binging and purging it was partly because my size zero (cringe) jeans weren't fitting me anymore. Perfection, clearly defined by the size of my pants, was slipping away.

Fast forward three years and shopping for jeans still makes my stomach drop, flip-flop, and turn rather nauseous. The most recent time also made me violent.

Well, kind of.

I was returning a pair of pants at Gap because I thought they stretched out too much as I wore them. I thought maybe trying on a smaller size or similar pair would heed different results. Optimistic, I took two different sizes (this is where I stop using numbers) into the dressing room. Naturally, I secretly prayed the smaller of the two would fit.

And the smaller pair did fit. They were even comfortable, or so I thought. I tried on the bigger pair just to be safe and honestly couldn't tell a difference.

I put the smaller pair back on, did a little dance in the mirror for achieving something as remarkable as world peace and stepped out to ask my mom and sister their opinion.

Only my mom and sister were nowhere to be found. Instead I was left face to face with the sales girl.

"Do these ... um ... look ... um ... okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, they're fine," she said, clearly uninterested. I understood. I had worked in retail for three years and the amount of times I said those same words is unimaginable.

I knew she was lying. So I tempted her to tell me the truth.

"Well, I'm debating between these and the bigger size," I said, "But I'm nervous the bigger size might stretch out and I don't like my jeans to be baggy."

She knew I was onto her lack of truthfulness. She stopped folding the pile of clothes in front of her and walked closer to me.

"Yeah, they look a little tight," she casually said, "the bigger size is probably better."

She then had the audacity to look me straight in the eyes and say, "I mean, they won't stretch that much and you kind of need."
I froze in place and mentally lost it.

As she walked away I could picture myself running after her, pulling her hair, ripping her little pink sweater, giving her a black eye. Who the hell did this girl think she was, telling me I need a bigger size? I planned how I would throw her over my shoulder and hurl her down the nearest escalator.

I mean c'mon! I'm in recovery! You can't say tell someone whose recovering from flipping sticking her finger down her throat (sorry!) to be skinnier.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, but I know Big Bad Emily was creating as many torture methods as possible. When I got stuck on how to use a pair a pair of flats to injure someone, I got ahold of myself.

It doesn't matter what the sales girl said. If I want to be comfortable with my body that means loving myself regardless of the size pants I'm wearing.

Numbers are just numbers. That's it - nothing more, nothing less. Yes, the scare me and yes, I hate them. But I don't despise them because they define me, I despise them because in the grand scheme of things - they don't mean anything. Literally, they don't mean a single thing.

Just because I'm a size ___, doesn't mean I'm any better or worse than the next person. This may seem like common sense, but it's been something rather difficult for me to comprehend. That day in the Gap fitting room was my first glimpse at understanding.

So I walked back into my fitting room, changed into the clothes I was wearing and purchased the jeans, in the bigger size. Although I wouldn't allow myself to admitt earlier that the bigger size looked better, let alone fit better, it was the truth.

And at the end of the day, being truthful and accepting myself is what matters most.