Want to guess what left me crying in the dressing room of Old Navy yesterday?

After victoriously taking on the license issue, I decided that I wanted to go size things at the store. I had just fit into my sister’s old size 18s, even if it was not yet appropriate for me to actually wear them because of the far too impressive camel toe I was sporting. Feeling overly victorious, though, I wanted to go try on new 18s and see how they fit. After all, those old pants had been through the washer at least a hundred times and who knew if they were still true to size.

18 Short, to be precise, was what I was after. With my oh so very short legs I can’t even dream of wearing regular length pants. It’s laughable. Really, a 27.5 inch inseam would be the properly fitting size but I go with the shortest available.

Putting on my headphones as I walked into Old Navy, I went straight for the jeans. Much to my dismay, there were no 18 short sizes available. I almost swore. Seeing my frustration, a significantly less annoying than usual floor person let me know that the style I was looking at was the only one without short sizes. Looking at the next style over, I saw a few of my size and grabbed them in a couple different styles to compare… that is, of course, if they would even make it over my ample ass.

On my way to the dressing room I just happened to grab a pair of regular inseam khakis and about six dresses. You know, just for good measure.

In the dressing room I suddenly got that nauseous “this was a bad idea,” kind of feeling. Was I just setting myself up for disappointment? I mean, I didn’t really expect them to fit but I wanted to see how close I was.

Deciding not to delay the inevitable, I chose to try on the pants first. Remembering that short sizes are always a little smaller in the waist than regular sizes I decided to try the khakis first. Unfolding them, I looked at the size of the waist and thought, “There’s no way that this is going to happen. They won’t fit.” But, I am not a quitter, so I hopped in them, pulled them up, adjusted them around the booty, and nearly closed my eyes while trying to button them. They fit. Granted, they were several inches too long, but if they had been the right length I would have bought them on the spot.

One happy dance later, I stripped off that pair and went for the short jeans. This was the true test. These jeans had no spandex in them, no stretch, no give; no mercy. I haven’t had a pair of jeans that weren’t stretch jeans since middle school.

As I pulled them up I could feel that they were a bit tighter than the khakis but they seemed to still be moving upward. Doing the shimmy-dance-get-these-things-over-my-lumps, I acquainted the jeans with the shape of my ass and got them all the way up.

Realizing that a pair of red underwear with frills that added to the mass of my midsection might have been the wrong choice for this adventure (but the right choice for having to fight for my license, I needed the badass ridiculousness), I cringed slightly. Oh well.

Yet, when it came time to button and zip the things, they were a perfect fit. I mean, I had a little bit of muffin top but with my shape muffin top is inevitable. Right now I’m wearing the jeans I owned at 296lbs. They’re literally falling off my ass but it still looks like I have muffin top. It’s my shape.

I just stood there and stared.

Clearly this pair had to be a fluke. It tried on the next pair. It fit. So, I tried on the next. It fit too. I stared at myself in the mirror realizing that this was the first time in my life I’ve ever been able to walk into a store, grab the size that fits me, try the things on, and have them just plain fit.

In a flurry of emotion, I started crying.

I mean, I didn’t really like these jeans, but they fit. But that was the point, I don’t like them and I don’t have to buy them because I have options. It’s no longer a matter of “Do they fit? Fine, I’ll get them.” Instead, it’s a matter of “Do they fit? Do I like them? Do they look good? Cool. I’ll buy them.”

Taking off the last pair of jeans while trying to wipe my nose and fix my mascara, I wondered if anyone had heard me crying and if they would think it was because something didn’t fit. I didn’t really care, though. With a big cheesy smile I hopelessly tried to suppress, I gave the clothing back to the fitting room attendant and walked out.

Knowing that they will fit, I can take my time and find a pair that I really love. I’ve never had that option before and I’ll never lose it again, so help me God.